


Promised Land

by anomalously



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Discussion of Abortion, EMT!Ian, Eventual Happy Ending, F/F, Flashbacks, Friends to Lovers, Getting Back Together, Gun Violence, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Misogyny, Mutual Pining, Organized Crime, Past Abuse, Recreational Drug Use, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, biker!mickey, canon compliant racism, faking heterosexuality, loosely based in the 90's
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-10-10
Packaged: 2019-03-12 21:00:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 118,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13555488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anomalously/pseuds/anomalously
Summary: Six years ago, Terry Milkovich shattered Ian and Mickey's carefully constructed relationship and their close friendship with Svetlana. Then came prison - Mickey stupidly taking the fall for the Iron Eagles motorcycle club in a suspicious deal gone terribly wrong. It took those six years for Mickey to figure out what he had to do. Six years for him to see things clearly and decide that the pedestal his father stood himself on needs to be burnt to the fucking ground.Six years, and Ian doesn’t know he’s home.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've already tagged a lot of stuff, but as a heads up, CONTENT WARNING FOR THIS AND FUTURE CHAPTERS:
> 
> +angst, like a lot  
> +drug/alcohol use  
> +unhealthy coping mechanisms  
> +mentioned past rape  
> +mentioned past abuse  
> +faking heterosexuality (nothing graphic)  
> +misogyny (biker gang culture)
> 
> I think I got all of it. If not, I will add as I go. ALSO please remember that this is "loosely" based in the 90's. I say loosely because It's not a hard 90's era fic but there are elements that are rooted in 90's here and there.

Chicago heat engulfed Mickey as he stepped into the prison parking lot, making his way towards the tall chain link gate. He stopped for a few seconds, plastic bag gripped in his hand, head tilting skyward as he let the sun soak into his skin. Wasn’t like he hadn’t been exposed to the sun for the past six years, but there was something entirely different about being in the sun _outside_ of the walls of Cook County, rather than in the middle of the Yard.

He bent his neck from side to side, letting his shoulders relax under the heat of summer, breathing in the warm air. It wasn’t quiet, but the white noise of the city —untainted by the hollering of inmates— was a welcome nostalgia. Felt good to be out.

Mickey let one of his arms raise a little as he took another deep breath, four of his fingers curling into his fist as he raised his hand higher, directing his rude gesture to his immediate left, where a dozen or so feet away was a sneering CO shaking his head at Mickey. Mickey smirked back at him.

“Ay, get fucked, Thompson,” he called out to the CO. The guy was a grade A asshole, but he was decent sometimes. He’d talk shit with Mickey —mild entertainment.

“Yeah, see you soon, Milkovich,” Thompson then returned the middle finger. “I give it a month!”

Mickey rolled his eyes, “Nah, this was my last tour.”

Thompson let out a disbelieving snort, still shaking his head, “We’ll see.”

Mickey smirked, giving the CO a nod before he continued towards the gate. He grinned wide, seeing his little welcoming party that was waiting for him on the other side of the chain link. A line of four bikes —shiny black and chrome. Fucking beautiful.

Once he was let out of the gate, there was his sister, arms already up and waiting for him. Mickey smirked at her, wrapping his arms around her, letting her hug him tight. Shit, he never thought he would ever really miss his family —never thought he’d get caught up in a hug from his sister. When was the last time someone hugged him? His muscles ached under the pressure, but he didn’t let go —wouldn’t let go until she did.

“Why do you always smell like barbecue sauce when you get out?” She sniffed, holding him out at arms length.

Mickey shrugged out of her hold, then whipped his hand out faster than Mandy could stop him, pinching her nipple through her bra.

“Mick!” Mandy squealed, going for his hair, pulling hard, “You can’t —stop, we’re _adults_ now Mickey, fuck!”

“Ay!” Mickey let her go; she finally let him go with a smirk. “Bitch —the fuck?”

But then there was Sully, grabbing him, hitting his back hard as he hugged him tight, “How’s it feel, man? Six years —long fucking time. You get taller?”

“Fuck off. I could use a fucking beer though,” Mickey laughed, stepping back when Sully let him go.

Iggy was next, throwing an arm around Mickey’s shoulders, dragging him into a half-hug as he shoved Mickey’s leather cut into his hands, “Got that covered. Tonight, all the beer and pussy you could ever fucking want.”

Mickey’s brows raised, “Really?”

“Iggy!” Mandy yelled, her face falling in exasperation.

Colin reached over and smacked Iggy in the back of the head, “Motherfucker, it was supposed to be a surprise!”

That set off an instant —and loud— back and forth between Mickey’s siblings, right in front of the prison gates. Just like always; Mickey grinned, shaking his head while he shrugged his cut on. Felt good to have it on again. He ran his hands down the soft leather, the patches, rolling his shoulders, getting situated.

Sully slung an arm around his shoulders, subtly directing Mickey a few feet away from Iggy and Colin. His other hand offered Mickey a cigarette, which he took and popped between his lips immediately. He let Sully walk him wherever he was going, while he lit up the cigarette with the lighter that his friend passed to him.

“All the pussy you want,” Sully eyed him while he it, a little glimmer in his eye, the fucker.

Mickey glanced over at him while he took a drag, filling his lungs with smoke. “Fuck you.”

Sully snorted a soft laugh, shaking his head. He let his arm fall from Mickey’s shoulders, “Yeah, well… get ready, they weren’t kidding. Terry’s calling in all the girls; heard him telling ‘em to show you a good welcome home. Gonna be up to your eyes in it.”

That’s what Mickey was expecting. Pulled right back in the moment he was out of the fucking can. Couldn’t push this off. Mickey quirked an eyebrow at him, “Got some little blue friends for me, at least?”

Sully paused, sighing like he didn’t want to answer —like he was smacked in the face with reality, and the humor got sucked out of his lungs— but he nodded anyway, “Yeah Mick, I got ‘em for you.”

He chose to ignore Sully’s reluctant tone. Sully was 'good people' —Mickey’s best friend. And the truth was that the guy probably hated Mickey’s situation just as much as Mickey did. Sometimes probably more. Sully wore his heart on his fucking sleeve, was a little soft like that. Hated seeing Mickey down pills in order to live up to Terry’s expectations, hated seeing his best friend live this fucked up double life that both of them knew was going to end in fucking pieces.

Couldn’t think about that shit now. He’d just walked out of those prison doors, now was not the time to be taking a walk down fucked-up-memory-lane. He cleared his throat; scratched the back of his neck, nodding while he looked around the parking lot —looked up at the ominous building that he’d called home for the past six fucking years. Shit, he couldn’t wait to get into his bed.

Mickey nodded, “A’ight. Thanks.” He took a deep breath, looking back at his siblings for a second, before turning back to Sully. “Terry on a run? Surprised he’s not here.”

Sully cleared his throat, scratching the back of his neck, “Got a warrant out for him right now, I think —he’s not talking about shit to anyone. But he’s laying low… wanted us to bring you back to the clubhouse.”

Mickey shook his head, snorting. Terry was the one who bailed on a bad deal, leaving Mickey high and dry to take the fall. Terry was the whole reason he spent six years behind bars. Fucker couldn’t even bother to come pick his own son up. Like he gave a shit about warrants —like he gave a shit about any fucking body. Typical.

Thing was, he really didn’t even want to see the motherfucker, it was just the principle of the matter, at this point. Terry hadn’t made it easy on Mickey when he was locked up, ordering jobs (hits), getting him in altercation after altercation. Sad thing was, even after all that, Mickey knew that in the end he was a pussy —not like he’d ever step up and confront Terry about any of that shit. Mickey would stand up to him —but only up to a point. He’d go as far as he was allowed (which wasn’t terribly far) before Terry shut his shit down, and Mickey clamped his mouth shut. Sad. Real fucking sad.

“What’s the warrant for?”

Sully shrugged, “He didn’t say. Tony won’t tell me, he’s getting all cagey about it. Probably something bullshit though. We clean up our messes.”

Mickey took a hard drag from his cigarette, shaking his head again, “If it was bullshit, Tony would give it up.”

“Yeah,” Sully sighed. “Ay, maybe he’ll talk to you about it.”

Mickey scoffed, “You think my old man will talk about shit to me—”

“Tony,” Sully cut him off. “Give him a little something for his troubles, find out what he knows. He likes you, he’ll talk.”

Mickey rolled his eyes, “Guys like Tony don’t take money, Sull, come on. He’s soft, but he ain’t like that.”

“Worth a shot.”

“I’ll hit him up,” Mickey nodded after a moment. Maybe Terry’s been getting sloppy. Maybe he crossed a line somewhere and didn’t clean up his mess as well as he thought he did. One can only fucking hope.

After another moment of silence —as silent as it could get with Mickey’s siblings still fucking hollering at each other, Sully knocked his elbow against Mickey’s side, “So, you make any new best friends on your little hiatus?”

“Fuck off,” Mickey breathed, reaching over to his friend, slinging his arm around his shoulders like Sully had done to him a moment ago. “You know, I forgot how fucking ugly you are when you’re not behind that glass.”

“Fuck you, I’m gorgeous,” Sully rolled his eyes, edging him towards his bike.

Mickey beamed at her. Got her right before he got locked up. All black with chrome, beautiful fucking Harley Low Rider. Sexy ass bitch. He didn’t even notice his brothers and Sully straddle their own bikes until three thunderous engines roared to life around him. 

Mickey climbed onto his bike, grinning at the guys as they made their cat-calls. His hands skimmed the matte black, the leather, the chrome, curling around the handlebars tightly, getting reacquainted with her. Fuck, he missed her so much.

“Ay, don’t jizz yourself,” Iggy reached over, knocking his hand against Mickey’s shoulder.

Mickey wiggled in the seat a little, adjusting himself while he turned the bike on. It roared to life under him. He wet his lips, grinning, revving the engine a couple times. God, it was good to be out, good to on a bike again. He missed this feeling, missed the hum under him, the heat of the engine, smell of the exhaust. All of it.

Vaguely, he heard Sully yelling at Mandy to, “Get your skinny ass on here, let’s go!”

That stupid ass saying, _just like riding a bike_? It’s not bullshit. Mickey hadn’t been on a bike in six fucking years. It had been like missing an arm, a leg, some other part of him. Sitting there, feeling it hum under him, ready to go. Like she was calling to him, purring a welcome home. Just like riding a bike, was right. Mickey took the lead, speeding off into the sunlight while his brothers and sister rode closely behind.

 

* * *

 

The welcome home party was as expected. Loud, and volatile. Too much drugs and booze, too little actual food to soak it all up. Just layers and layers of gluttonous behavior. Suck down all the alcohol you could to wash down the drugs, with only bowls of chips and pretzels —some hot wings to soften the edges a little. Before, Mickey would be all over this shit.

Thrown right back into the saddle. It was hard to appreciate it like he did before. It was too loud now, too many bodies, too much going on. Mickey didn’t think he’d be that effected by prison, but here he was. There was too much on his mind. Too many thoughts, and too little quiet to sort through them all. The coke probably wasn’t helping. He’d only done a couple bumps, but still, it had his mind wandering off to places, speeding around corners he forgot existed.

Billiard balls cracked under the sounds of drunken slurring, music, and the baseball game on the large television in the clubhouse. Leather cuts strapped across backs —stitched with the flying eagle colors, lettering at the top Iron Eagles; South Side framing out the bottom of the cut. The whole scene belonged in some kind of terrible reenactment in a TV documentary. Young women with their tits spilling out of low-cut tops fawning over the older men, tending to their every beck and fucking call.

The dark leather armchair that Mickey sat in was older than him, tearing a bit at the seams, the material soft and dull now. He kept his eyes trained on the baseball game, not really giving that much of a fuck about it, he just needed to keep a steady focus on something. He probably would’ve been in a better mood if his designated bitch of the night, that was currently seated in his lap, hadn’t’ve bathed herself in sugary sweet strawberry and vanilla whatever-the-fuck perfume.

The scent was sloughing off of her, and funneling right up his fucking nose. Mickey suppressed a cough, leaning back into his chair as he continued to pretend to watch the game; Iggy was rambling about something to the right of him, but he couldn’t follow what it was about; didn’t really care. He just kept his focus on the game.

The girl on his lap wiggled a little bit, glancing back at him with a flirty little grin. His lips pressed together tightly as he gave one back, resting his hand on her hip, gave her a little squeeze. He prayed she wouldn’t lean back against him; her fucking perfume was too much.

Mickey rubbed his fingers against his mouth. What was her name again? Fuck —didn’t matter, he had to get her off of him. He tapped her hip to get her attention, then tilted his head to the side when she looked back at him.

“Get me another beer,” he told her. He needed to breathe for a minute without that fucking smell jamming its way down his throat. She nodded, big blonde hair swaying a little when she did, then got up off of his lap, taking her perfume coat with her when she skirted off to the bar.

“Ay, if you’re not gonna hit that, let me know,” Iggy was keeping his voice low as he spoke. His eyes lit up, eyebrows arching high. Colin had said that he’d been popping shit all week, not to mention drinking since he woke up. Another week, another bender. Iggy hadn’t changed. Never would.

Mickey rolled his eyes, slipping a cigarette between his lips, talking while he lit up, “All this muff around here, and you wanna jump on the bitch in _my_ lap… on my welcome home party.”

The illusion slipped back onto Mickey like an old pair of shoes. The lie. He slipped right back into it so easy, it almost made him question what kind of person he was. Almost. He just had to get through it though. Just had to play the same game he’d been playing his entire fucking life.

“Yeah but she’s new,” Iggy winked at him. Tried to wink. Dude was a little too high to actually nail it, so he ended up just blinking at Mickey. “Fresh meat.”

He forced himself to snort a laugh, because the fact was that the girl wasn’t new, she’d been hanging around the club for at least a month. That’s what Sully had said, anyways. She was just floating around, fucking anyone who offered her a good time. To be fair, Iggy was high as shit most days, so to him she probably was new. Knowing Iggy’s shit memory and bender schedule, they probably already had fucked, and he just couldn’t remember.

“Your tweaking ass probably can’t even get it up.”

Iggy flipped him off, face scrunching up as he laughed, “Fuck you, man.”

Mickey laughed with his brother, an honest laugh this time, returning the middle finger. And then Iggy was off rambling about something else —something about a new bike he had his eye on, and this time Mickey really gave an effort to try to follow his brother’s words.

While Iggy was talking, the girl came back with a beer bottle in hand. She slid into Mickey’s lap, leaning into him, arm sliding around the back of his neck. He did his part, absentmindedly wrapping his arm around her hips low, holding on to her, bringing her into him but not actually acknowledging her. For his efforts, he got a face full of tits and perfume as she pressed against him, lips feathering over his temple.

The girls liked his indifference —always had since he was young. Thought he was some mystery man or some shit, keeping close to the vest —they didn’t seem to catch on that his indifference was exactly what it was. Indifference to their bodies, their flirting, their brave touches to his thighs or chest. He couldn’t explain it; it was like muscle memory. The detachment, the compartmentalizing when he had to do this. Truth was, he barely felt the touches to his thighs or chest anymore. Barely cared, just wanted it to get it over with.

He sighed when she kissed his cheek again, letting his eyes wander around the room, looking for Terry. Had to be here somewhere —probably took a couple girls to the back to have his way with them. The thought made his stomach turn over. But as long as he wasn’t breathing down Mickey’s neck, he didn’t care all that much.

Sully has impeccable timing. Simultaneously yanking Mickey out of his thoughts, and easing tension that was building around him. He’s quick about it, quick and loud and drunk, grabbing at Mickey’s face while he babbles, almost knocking the girl out of his lap.

“Open up, big boy,” Sully grins. “Candy Man’s here!”

Mickey does as he’s told, feeling a pill pop into his mouth. He swallows it down, chasing it with a beer. Sully’s giving him a quick sobered-up look that only the two of them share, that only the two of them know the meaning behind. Mickey’s little blue friend that’s going to help him through the night, help him play his part. Only twenty fucking six years old and already well-versed in popping these fucking things.

“Ay, Candy Man, you got something for me?” Iggy calls over.

Sully’s gone out of Mickey’s face as quick as he got there, turning to Iggy, “Fucker, did you just spend six years in the can? Nah. Don’t got shit for you. ‘Sides, you’re two fucking pills away from a coma!”

To Mickey’s amusement, that set off a temporary play-fight between the two. Iggy knocked over his beer. Sully caught an elbow to the gut.

“You doing okay?” The girl purred into his ear. She shifted her body, pressing against him again, her thigh snug against him.

Mickey took a drag from his cigarette, blowing it away from her face, “Yeah.”

She kissed his neck, humming softly, really putting the work. Hannah —her name was Hannah, Mickey remembered. He took the beer bottle from her hands, finally looking at her as he took a swig —the girls liked that too (girls and boys aren’t always so different, Mickey’s found out). She does this little giggle and lifts her shoulders a touch like she’s blushing. Mickey wouldn’t’ve been able to tell she’s blushing though, with all that fucking makeup she’s got on.

She was probably really pretty under all five pounds of makeup. He wondered how she managed to end up in this situation, how and why she chose to get involved with all these fucking assholes (himself included). Some of these pricks treated their side pieces _and_ old ladies like fucking trash, treated them more like property.

Hannah laughs at something Iggy says, looking at Mickey. She threw him a flirty little grin, so close to his face. Mickey didn’t look away as he finished off the beer in one go, chugging it down while he made a bunch of assumptions about her, like a checklist. Probably has “daddy issues”; probably turned a few tricks in her past; probably hoping to get knocked up by someone in the club, be kept, be an official Ol’ Lady. They probably weren’t fair assumptions, but it was so hard to give a fuck about that when the chick is a walking bobblehead.

Hannah didn’t look away either, bringing a hand to stroke his chest, her fingers brushing against the chain he wears, gently tugging at it; he wishes she wouldn’t, but he doesn’t stop her. Her other hand behind his head playing with the hairs on the back of his neck… that he actually didn’t mind, felt good enough. But he needed a haircut. He’d needed a haircut for a good while now, but the prison barber shop wasn’t worth shit, and he didn’t really want to walk out of the joint looking like he got in a fight with a lawnmower.

She leaned in, staring at his mouth. Ah… that. That other thing the girls loved, would even beg him for sometimes. Nope. Mickey sighed, turning his head away, “I only kiss my ol’ lady,” he lied.

Her eyes darting towards his hand —his ring finger. That gold band. More like a shackle, when Mickey was feeling particularly dramatic. Maybe she hadn’t been paying attention, or maybe she was faking the slight surprise when she asked, “You’re married?”

Iggy snorted a laugh; Mickey did too. He sucked down hard on his cigarette, hearing Terry’s booming, gravelly laugh somewhere on the other side of the common area. Absentmindedly, Mickey brushes his thumb over the crooked scars on his forehead, the ones right under his hairline —left side. Funny, you’d think all these fucking years would lessen that sinking feeling in his gut. You’d think that at twenty six years old, he wouldn’t be so goddamn scared of his father. You’d think.

So here he goes, because he’s a fucking lie, he’s nothing more than a man in a mask, a puppet moving along with the strings his father pulls. Just have to play the game for now. Don’t be a bitch, just do what you’re fucking supposed to. You know how this works, a six year break doesn’t give you a fucking free pass.

Mickey grabs onto this girls ass, arching a brow at her. He feels fucking nothing. Nothing. But apparently she does, and she thinks he does too, because giggles and flips her hair, biting her bottom lip. Her face lights up, all excited because she’s thinking she finally got what she’s been looking for. A little reciprocation, a little manhandling.

Christ, she smells like if Strawberry Shortcake grew up and became a hooker.

“Too good to fuck a married man?” Mickey asks her.

Saying this shit to women used to feel so wrong in his mouth —still felt wrong. But the more you lie, the more you play pretend, the better you get. And Mickey’s gotten it down. He’s got an imagination on him better than anyone else, he swears. He can compartmentalize like his life depends on it (which, to be fair… it does) —can fuck any girl in this building. He just has to pretend. Has to imagine. Has to lie. And he’s good at that. He’s real fucking good. Muscle memory.

Hannah falters a little, but recovers with a little laugh. “As long as your wife doesn’t skin me alive,” she shrugs.

Mickey watches Iggy get up from his chair and make his way towards a couple girls standing next to the pool table, before turning his attention back to Hannah, “You wanna bang or not?”

He doesn’t really have time for more of the the back and forth right now. Best to get this the fuck over with. Walk past Terry to get to the back rooms, make a show of how he’s dutifully flexing his manhood, fucking whoever he wants. ‘Wants’.

Hannah’s teeth are perfect and bright. She smiles, head tilting back a little as she laughs. Mickey doesn’t know what she’s laughing at, and he’s not really sure she knows either. It’s all a lie. Everything. Everything from Mickey’s interest in fucking this girl, to her tits —all fake.  But he swallows it down, putting his mask on, watching her get up from his lap, watching her reach for his hand, tugging on him to stand and follow her.

He does.

When they walk past Terry, Mickey makes sure to keep his hand firmly on Hannah’s hip, pulling her snug against his side. Terry’s drunk, eyes watery but hard as he watches them walk past. Nods at Mickey; a good job nod. Mickey forces himself to nod back, hating a small lift of relief he feels in his chest. He’s always going to have that part of him, that knocked around little kid who just wants to see a flicker of pride from his father. Makes him sick. He barely notices how Hannah is touching his chest again as they walk. He barely notices that she’s talking to him, probably trying to be sexy, trying to turn him on.

God, if only. If fucking only it were that simple. It’s not. It never will be.

He takes her through the long hallway —a section of the floor boards creak and echo down the hallway. Decades worth of mugshots framed and stuck on both sides of the wall. He’s even got a couple up there; Hannah catches them, pointing them out, all batting eyelashes and soft gasps. Mickey just smirks when she asks what he did. He doesn’t answer. It’s not a big deal, and she only giggles more when he doesn’t explain. Mickey doesn’t get it, but these girls love that shit. That _indifference_ again.

There’s a few rooms in the back. They’re small. Dorm-ish rooms for when someone needs to crash at the club for a few days, or lay low. Mickey’s got his own that no one else is allowed to stay in, had it since he was a teenager, desperately overcompensating for shit he couldn’t control —it’s also perk of being a son of the President. Iggy and Colin gave their rooms up years ago, moving in with their own ol’ ladies, popping out a couple kids.

Mickey’s room is pretty lived in. Usually it’s fairly messy, but he knows since he’s been gone, Svet’s been in there to clean shit up, do his laundry… restock the condoms in the nightstand. You know, wife shit. He’s got his guns tucked away in a dresser drawer, posters all over the walls —a mix of swimsuit models with comically large tits, and bands. The bed has been made up for him, and Mickey doesn’t think about the fact that after he fucks this girl in his bed, he’s gotta sleep in it. His room is going to smell like Strawberry Short Hoe for a week after this. Awesome.

He closes the door, and the room gets quiet when he does. The cracking from billiard balls, the laughing, the game… it’s gone. It’s just them now. Hannah gives him her best bedroom eyes, sitting on the edge of his bed. She reaches for him. Mickey makes his feet walk to her, makes himself stand there, looking down at her. His body is waking up now, right on time. It’s all synthetic, a trick of the mind —a trick of biology. The illusion at it’s best.

Her fingers are plucking at his belt buckle, the metallic clicks filling up the silence of the room. He bites the inside of his cheek, breathing deep, looking at the wall that his bed is shoved against. There’s a blue thumbtack he stares at. It’s a little crooked, punching through the corner of a poster. He keeps staring at that blue thumbtack.

He doesn’t want this.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Mickey wakes up to a soft, warm body curled around his own. He pulls a face, gently pushing the girl off of him, forgetting her name again. She barely stirs, just moaning softly in her sleep, moving to lay on her back. For a second, he just sits on the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his knees before he stretches his arms out a little and finally stands.

He pulls his jeans on, grabs a white t-shirt out of his dresser, tugging that on as well, along with his cut. Fills his pockets with his shit —wallet, cigarette carton, keys, lighter— before he slips his socks and boots on. His walkman is sitting on his dresser, so he grabs that too, hooking the headphones around his neck, shoving the little machine in his pocket with his keys. He does this quick, does it silent. His stomach is growling like a motherfucker; last night he didn’t have much to eat, so he felt like he could eat a whole fucking horse.

He gave the girl one last look before he left his room. Barely covered up by the blankets, hair fanned out over the pillow. God, how easy it would’ve been to be into that. How easy his whole world would be if he could appreciate her legs and breasts the way normal guys could. The girl was pretty, had nice hair and objectively a nice ass too. Mickey shook his head at himself, going for his cigarettes, popping one into his mouth. If fucking only.

There were bodies strewn all over the clubhouse. Snoring, heavily breathing bodies. Naked bodies. Bodies with half their clothes on. Mickey sighed as he stepped over Colin in the hallway, maneuvered around the girl who had fallen asleep with a half empty bottle of tequila in her hand. He couldn't tell if he missed this or not, but the smell of alcohol and sweat in the air was enough to make him want to get out of there as quickly as possible.

“Where you running off to?”

Mickey sighed, hand uncurling from the clubhouse’s doorknob. He turned, giving Terry a nod. His father had his morning beer in hand already, looking at Mickey like he already smelled a lie before it even came out of his mouth. Terry trusted him up until a point. Never fully. He’d trust him to make runs and collect money, trust him to hold shit down while he was away… but he never fucking trusted Mickey just running around Chicago on his own. Never. Too many opportunities for Mickey to slip up. Terry liked to think that he had Mickey whipped into shape in every aspect. He thought he had control over Mickey. Mickey let him think that, most days.

“M’fucking starving,” Mickey told him. Wasn’t a lie. No reason to lie. “Gonna get some pancakes —why, you wanna come?”

Just like Mickey knew he would, Terry shook his head, “Nah, I’m gonna stay here.”

Might as well fish around a little, “You laying low or something?”

Terry shrugged it off, “Tired of those fucking pigs on my ass all the time. S’always something with those fucks.”

Mickey nodded, “What they bothering you about now?”

“Nothing you need to fucking worry about,” Terry almost snarled his answer. He took a long chug from his beer, wiping his mouth as he burped. “Bring me back something.”

Mickey nodded, “Sure.”

Terry paused, “You got your piece before you go?”

Mickey shook his head, “Just got out, they’re gonna be on my ass—”

“Don’t be fucking stupid,” Terry cut him off as he grabbed the pistol he kept in his waistband, handing it over to Mickey. “You forget how shit works while you were away?”

Mickey looked down at the gun in his hand. Terry had this gun for years —same gun that gave Mickey that scar on his forehead. “I didn’t forget,” he said. He shoved the gun in his own waistband, making sure his shirt covered it up.

“After you bring me food, go see your wife,” Terry told him. So further explanation, no reason given.

He cleared his throat, rubbing at the corner of his mouth, “I was gonna.”

Terry stared at him for a second, eyes narrowing, “Be sure you do.”

Mickey swallowed hard, nodded. “Yeah. I will.”

As soon as Terry turned and walked away, Mickey was out of there. He almost jumped on his bike, but decided to walk instead. He put his headphones on, making sure to walk in the morning sun while he made his way towards the diner close to the clubhouse. With his old music blasting in his ears, and the stale Chicago air blowing in his face, Mickey fucking basked in it.

This felt good. This felt really fucking good. He let everything else drop, nothing else mattered. Six years gave him some goddamn perspective. Six years will give anyone perspective, but Mickey… he did a lot of thinking. Did a lot of prioritizing. Terry was a sonofabitch, and Mickey was so fucking tired of letting him run his life into the ground. He was so tired of being scared of the older man. He wasn’t a kid anymore, he wasn’t helpless. He’d play his part, he’d do what he had to to get by for now. But not forever. He couldn’t and wouldn't live by Terry’s rules forever. He already wasted his whole life doing that, and had nothing to show for it.

It would be a long con. It would be hard, in the end. Mickey, despite Terry and everything he’d put Mickey and his siblings, through… Mickey _loved_ the club. He was raised into the club, raised around men who took what they wanted, who did what they wanted, consequences be damned. They answered to no one. Mickey loved that shit, loved being like that. But he couldn’t really be like that —couldn’t really answer to no one. Not yet. But one day, yeah. One day he could. He would. He’d get there, or die trying.

The diner was a little too busy for Mickey’s liking, but he sat at the counter anyway, feeling the eyes on him. Fuck, he missed that —weirdly. Wearing his cut drew curious looks. Made people pause in the middle of eating, in the middle of talking, so they could watch the biker man stroll in and sit down. Just for a second, and not all at once, not like movies and shit where an entire space went silent for a moment. Just a brief pause. Scattered whispers about tattoos, scattered whispers about his looks. Sully always accused Mickey of being a closet attention whore; maybe he was right.

A waitress was on the other side of the counter, pad and pen in hand, and Mickey didn’t look up right away until he heard a soft gasp and an even softer, “Holy shit.”

When he looked up, he felt something in him sink. Felt some dead part of him jolt awake and tear a scream from it’s rotted mouth. The last time he saw Fiona Gallagher, she’d been yelling and cursing at him for… he didn’t want to think about it. Once upon a time, he and Fiona used to be cool. Not close, but okay. She was a couple years older than him, but at one point they’d went to the same school. Plus, her brother… Ian —Ian who he grew up with, who he…

And just like that he felt this old worn-out shame blanket over him. This torn up sense of guilt and embarrassment, because the look of disgust in Fiona’s eyes the last time they saw each other. It hit him hard.

“Fuck,” he mouthed. He tensed up, moving to get up from his seat; he wanted to fucking punch himself because his flight or fight reflexes curled up and rolled over like a beaten down dog. Over a fucking Gallagher.

But she reached over the counter, putting her hand on his, holding him tight. Mickey looked at her face, her sharp brows and curious brown eyes, “No. Sit down.”

He sat, bottom lip tight between his teeth, “Didn’t know you worked here.”

Fiona poured him coffee, tone a little tight —but she’d always talked to him like that, even before. She never liked his family, never liked her little brother hanging around him, and who could blame her. “A lot goes on you don’t know about when you’re in prison for six years.”

Mickey took it, nodding his head, “Yeah.”

“So, when’d you get out?”

Mickey took a deep breath, knowing what she was really asking, “Yesterday.” At her silence, her silent question, he added, “I haven’t.”

Fiona nodded, handing him a large laminated menu, “Keep it that way.”

Mickey caught his tongue in the corner of his mouth as he looked down at the diner’s menu, hearing Fiona sigh and then walk away to help another customer. He was still starving, but he knew whatever he put into his mouth was just going to taste bitter and ashy. Quickly, he stole a glance at Fiona, watching her smile and hand over plates of food to a couple sitting a few seats away.

She may have never truly liked Mickey, but there had been a time where she appreciated him. There’d been a time where they used to make each other laugh, over beers and cigarettes, never being friends but friendly. A lot of shit went down six and a half years ago. Mickey didn’t know if she knew about everything that happened. He didn’t know if she got the whole story, if she was able to put pieces together. Knowing Ian though, she never found out. But Mickey put his name on the top of her list six and a half years ago, he knew that for fucking sure. He’d never get off that list. Ever.

Fiona came back a minute later, “Know what you want?”

He nodded, “Just… pancakes, I guess. Bacon, eggs, all that shit.”

Finally, her mouth cracked a little in a smirk, “One post-prison special coming up.”

“Thanks,” Mickey smirked back.

She nodded, her eyes squinting a little as she took his menu back, “Don’t rob the place while I’m gone, okay?”

A little tension eased from Mickey’s shoulders as he breathed a soft laugh, “I’ll try.”

 

* * *

 

Mickey lit up a cigarette as he leaned back against his bike. He hadn’t seen this fucking house in so long. It was a tiny little thing he had bought after the wedding. Just one story, two bedrooms. They never needed the extra space, never planning on having kids —also, they never really had the time to, what with Mickey getting locked up shortly after the marriage.

Even if they’d had the time, that was never the plan. That was the one thing that he and Svetlana had both agreed that Terry could not and would not control, no matter how hard he pushed for it. Svetlana had said to Mickey one night that she’d go get her tubes tied and claim to be barren before she’d ever bring a child into this fuckshow.

The front door opened, and out came the wife, hand on her hip, “You gonna stand there all day looking like a serial killer, or are you coming inside?”

Mickey snorted a laugh, gently pushing off his bike, “I’m weighing my options.”

Svetlana rolled her eyes as she let him in, “You’re a hundred thirty pounds of Ukrainian pussy —no balls for a serial killer.”

“Fuck off,” Mickey made his way towards the kitchen, needing a beer. Svetlana always kept good beer around. “Not one-thirty anymore, anyways. Put a couple pounds on,” he lifted an arm, flexing his muscle. Not much to do inside except work out, after all.

Svetlana rolled her eyes again (she always rolled her eyes at him), “What, one-thirty-five now?”

“Something like that,” Mickey grinned, opening the fridge. He grabbed a brown bottle of beer, popping the cap off. “You been shopping?” He asked, pointed.

Svetlana’s eyes widened, “ _Hello Lana, how have you been for the past six years? Anything new with you? How’s your job? Did you get a haircut since I saw you last?_ Wow, yes I did get a haircut since you saw me last, thanks for noticing!”

It was Mickey’s turn to roll his eyes. He sighed, “Jesus fucking christ. You act like I haven’t fucking seen you every goddamn month since I got locked up.”

“You just come home and start in with it, excuse me for wanting to talk first.”

Mickey took another long swig of his beer, “What do you wanna fucking talk about then, Lana? You wanna talk about how shitty those curtains are?” He pointed to the floral fabric framing the kitchen window. “You wanna talk about prison? What?”

She said something in Russian under her breath, shaking her head. “You could ask me how _I’ve_ been, for once. Act like you give a shit.”

That wasn’t fair, and both of them knew it. Mickey just stared at her, the mouth of his bottle barely touching his lips, frozen for a moment. He set the bottle on the counter and nodded, nonetheless. “How you been, Lana?”

Svetlana didn’t answer right away, pushing her hair out of her face, looking around the small kitchen. “Crawling out of my skin.”

He kept nodding, “That’s why I asked if you’ve been shopping.”

She sighed, “I know… I’m just… I’m done, Mickey. I can’t do this anymore, can’t be around those people anymore. I can’t breathe. They don't bother me anymore, but I still can't... I can't be me.”

He snorted a laugh into his beer bottle before taking another sip, “Join the fucking club.”

She smiled a little at that, “I can’t, no girls allowed.”

Again, Mickey rolled his eyes, “Funny, huh?”

Finally, she answered his first question, “We found a few things you'd like.”

“How close to—”

“Some five minutes, some twenty,” she interrupted him. “Wherever you are, you always see it though. They’re all nice… I'll show you. I took pictures.”

“You went there? When?”

Svetlana reached for Mickey's cigarette carton, getting one for herself. She lit it up, blowing smoke up above their heads, “Of course we went there. Made a little vacation of it weeks ago.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Mickey asked.

She shrugged, “Trying to save your cellmate from a bitchy Milkovich.”

“Fuck you,” Mickey smirked, shaking his head.

Here’s the thing about Svetlana and Mickey… they’re friends. They’ve been friends for a _long_ time. Since before —before the wedding, before everything went bad. They’ve always bickered and clashed, but they’ve grown up together. It’s made things both easier and harder. Easier, because Svetlana probably knows Mickey better than most people. Harder because for a good long while, things between them broke —because of Terry.

Svetlana came with her own fucked up backstory, with her own piece of shit father —who subsequently died from dick cancer about a year ago. But Svetlana’s father and Mickey’s father had been tight. Both of them terrible fucking people, both of them abusive, both of them thinking they owned the entire world. Her father was Terry’s right hand man, and the only person he’d ever confided in. So when that day came that turned Mickey’s world upside down, Svetlana’s father sacrificed his equally gay daughter for the cause. Needless to say, he's officially been dead to her from that moment on.

But Mickey remembers when Svetlana came to visit him in prison after her father died. She smiled, and cried, but mostly smiled. And that’s when the plan started. The long con. Between the two of them, they could pull off some serious shit —had pulled off serious shit in the past. But now it was for real. There were no games, no petty cons. This was the rest of their lives, this was fucking freedom.

“Where is she?” Mickey asked. “Thought you two would be shacked up by now.”

Svetlana gave a little smile, brow arching, “Some people have legitimate jobs, you know.” She took another drag from her cigarette, “Besides, how would it look if Terry Milkovich's daughter in law was living with another woman?”

She had a point. Mickey took another sip from his beer. His mouth betrayed him faster than he was comfortable with, working on its own accord. He hadn't even really sat down and thought about it, hadn't allowed himself. But now, in the quiet kitchen, he asked, “You uh, you seen Ian around?”

The question must have caught Svetlana off guard, because her brows shot up. It took her a moment to get her bearings again. “The last time you asked me that was a week after they locked you up.”

“Yeah,” he sighed. He shouldn't have asked. Fiona told him to stay away. Gotta be for a good reason.

“Nothing’s changed,” she continued. “I haven't talked to him since the wedding. I see him around, but we don't talk. Not anymore.”

That hurt more than Mickey thought it should. Hurt for Ian and Svetlana. The three of them, growing up? They were always together. Ian and Svetlana had been so close, before. Terry ruined all of that. In one fell swoop, in one hour, he made all that crash to the ground and shatter in millions of pieces. It was never the same. Mickey didn't think it ever would be the same. He hadn't seen or spoken to Ian in six years. Wouldn't even know what to say to the guy at this point. _Hi? What's up?_

Before he started spiraling, a hand grabbed onto his elbow. Svetlana was directing him towards the kitchen table, “Sit down. I'll get the pictures.”

 

* * *

 

Mickey had to run a few errands, get back into the swing of things. Just because he was back, and out of prison, didn’t mean that he got a free pass to slack off. It was barely worth it, making a few drops around the neighborhood, collecting the money that was owed for said drops. He was greeted with surprised faces. A couple guys shaking his hand and thumping him hard on the back. Mickey wasn’t really one for smalltalk, but he made himself sit for a few minutes to bullshit around.

He tried to tell himself he wasn’t also keeping an eye out for a shock of red hair. Tried to tell himself that he didn’t drive by a certain baseball field on purpose. He’d suppressed those memories for so long, because it hurt too fucking much. Didn’t want to think about it now. Better that way, with how shit was going to pan out in the long run. Couldn’t get caught up in that windstorm right now. Best to heed Fiona’s words, best leave it alone. So he forced his mind elsewhere, focusing on the plan, focusing on getting the fuck out.

Him, Lana, and Lana’s girl. Where they could start the fuck over, where they could finally fucking breathe. Wasn’t a hundred percent _ideal_ to run away with a couple lesbians, but Mickey didn’t have a lot of choices. He wasn’t going to leave her behind, not after all the shit they went through together. He felt an odd sense of loyalty towards her. She fucking _adapted_ to their situation. Always put on the ol’ lady face, always either stepped up or backed off when it came to filling that job, as archaic as it could be. And Lana wasn’t going to leave without her girl. So that’s just how it was.

If he could bring his siblings with him, he would. And Sully. But they would be okay. Mandy has her own thing going on, away from the club, finally getting out of that bullshit —she was never welcome anyway, like Svetlana had said, no girls allowed. Mandy dipped her toes in every once in a while, came back to South Side to roll around in the mud. She’d always be South Side. But she belonged where she was now. College educated bitch, with a steady job and a “cute” studio apartment downtown. Even had herself a boyfriend that was more than happy to let her boss him around —which is _exactly_ what she needed, to be honest. Mandy would be good. She _was_ good.

But for now… Tony. It wasn't _too_ hard to hunt him down. The guy was always trolling around the neighborhood, and after riding around for a little bit, he finally caught him. Mickey made sure to put his bike up somewhere safe and take his cut off while he waved him down. He caught Tony just as he was driving under the L. Mickey gave him a nod to follow him, so Tony nodded back, pulling over and getting out of his cruiser. Mickey thought that Tony had a little too much faith in people sometimes, but they went way back. Mickey was Tony’s first chase, when he started out.

They were tucked away under the L, a couple abandoned, broken down cars, a dumpster, trash everywhere. It was a dump, and the odd hour of the day made it so no one was really even around. When they were in a good spot, Tony crossed his arms over his chest, leaning against one of the wide columns that held up the tracks. Mickey offered a cigarette, but the cop declined.

“Heard you've been all over the neighborhood already. Pretty busy for just getting out of prison,” Tony commented.

Mickey smirked, “Gotta stretch my legs out. Gets kinda cramped in a box.”

This kind of shit would get him in serious trouble if anyone from the club found out. Talking to a cop, getting information about his own fucking dad —about a club member. Yeah, this wasn’t exactly one of Mickey’s best moves. This was low. Lower than fucking low. But he had to take risks now, he had to figure out what the fuck was going on, what he was up against, in order for the plan to follow through with no hiccups —no major hiccups anyway. If Terry was going to be a problem, Mickey had to know.

Tony nodded, breathing a quiet laugh, “What's it that you need, Mickey?”

“Listen,” Mickey sighed, cutting the bullshit. “I'm just trying to figure out what's going on with my old man. Why're you looking for him?”

Tony hesitated for a second, shoving his hands into his pockets, “I'm just a beat cop, man. You know that.”

“Didn't take you for a fucking liar,” Mickey scoffed. “What did he do? Robbery? Assault? They got him on more drug charges?”

Again, Tony hesitated. He sighed, looking around the space under the tracks. “They're not stupid, they know where he is,” he finally admitted. “Terry's in deep shit, Mickey. There's a whole case building against him. Doesn't look good.”

Mickey wet his lips, mind running a million miles an hour. What the fuck did he do now. “Do I gotta worry about this? Am I in that casefile?”

Tony shook his head, “This started over a year ago, you're not connected unless you know something. You know something?”

Mickey sucked his teeth at the other man, “If I knew anything, I wouldn’t be fucking asking a cop about my dad, would I? He's not talking to me —not talking to anyone,” Mickey said. “How bad is it?”

“It's bad,” Tony confirmed, nodding. “I know your club has a code with all this, and some officers work with you… take money. But Mickey, he's crossed a line. When they get all the shit they need, he's going down for a long fucking time.”

“Can’t tell me what it is?” Mickey asked. “Not even a fucking hint?”

Tony shook his head, “Can’t risk it.”

Mickey smirked, pulling out a lighter for his cigarette, “What’s the matter Markovich, you don’t trust me?”

“Like I said, I know you got a code,” Tony shrugged. “I know how this works, Mickey. You get as much information as you can so you can go back to the club and—”

“You don’t know shit,” Mickey cut him off, keeping his voice quiet.

Tony was a good guy, so he could trust him, right? Especially if Mickey played his cards right. If Terry was deep in some real bad shit, it could work for him. He could use it. It would be the biggest fucking betrayal Mickey could ever make —probably a bigger betrayal than being the way he was. But he had his end-game now. He had a plan —he and Svetlana had a plan. With Terry out of the way… that plan could actually play out the way they wanted. Better, even.

He took a hard drag from his cigarette, hating himself for the words about to come out of his mouth, “What do you need on him?” God, this is what he turned into, huh?

Tony narrowed his eyes, “What’re you saying?”

“I’m saying you don’t know shit,” Mickey reiterated. He stared at Tony hard when he said it. Not daring to say the words, not daring to say it out loud.

There was a long pause where Tony just gaped at Mickey like he’d grown another head, “You’re not gonna turn on your dad, Mickey, come on.”

Another hard drag. Time to put up or shut up. All in. Cards on the table. Fuck the world, let’s burn it down. Mickey shook his head, “I give you what you need, you keep your fucking mouth shut about it, or else I’ll make it so they never find your fucking body, I don’t care that you’re a cop. Don’t fuck me over, I won’t fuck you over.”

Tony huffed a false laugh, “You can’t just threaten a cop, Mickey.”

“I’m not threatening you,” Mickey told him.

The police officer sighed, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Your own father.”

“Yeah,” Mickey confirmed. “And you keep my sister and my brothers out of this —including Sully. You keep them the fuck out of it, leave the club alone, and I’ll get you what you need. You only take him.”

“If they’re connected too, I can’t promise anything. I can talk to people, but I can’t promise anything.”

Mickey felt a pull in his gut, felt his shoulders tense up. “Since you’re not fucking telling me shit, knowing what you know… you think they could be involved? Sound like something they’d be into?”

Tony shook his head, “I don’t know… I don’t think so. Never know with your dads pull though, Mickey. You know better than anyone he can get people to do whatever he wants. I don’t know everything about the case, just that it’s happening and what it’s about.”

He could feel a headache coming on, dull but growing stronger. “Okay, based on what you _do_ know… do you at least think Iggy, Colin, Sully or Mandy would be involved —if they had a choice?”

“Gut reaction?”

Mickey nodded, impatient with this shit, “Gut fucking reaction, yes.”

“No. No way.”

Relief. Slight, but it was there. “So, we got a deal?”

Tony sighed, scrubbing his hands over his face, “How do I know you’re not setting me up?”

Mickey shrugged. Honest, “You don’t.”

“I’m not in charge of this,” Tony said. “I’ll talk to a few people and let you know, how’s that? They’re not gonna trust you that easy, everyone knows how it is with your family.”

Mickey nodded. Good enough. Had to be good enough. His stomach was tearing up in knots, his head forming a dull throb in the back of his skull. He felt sick. He felt like a fucking rat. He was taught better than that, was taught to keep his mouth shut, to do what he was told, to follow every order without question.

But where did that get him? Where was his fucking life now?

For good measure, Mickey looked the other man in the eyes, “I want him gone. You talk to whoever you gotta fucking talk to, just know that I want him gone. Rather not have to kill my old man, and have to go back to prison for it. So…”

Tony’s brows raised a little, “You’re serious.”

“Dead serious,” Mickey replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Oh Britt, I see you're writing another running away fic..... lmao fuck yeah I am)
> 
> [This is Mickey's bike](https://cdn2.cycletrader.com/v1/media/5a57eb74c82ad738f255cec9.jpg?width=512&height=384&quality=60) but matte black. 
> 
> So this is what I've been working on for months and months... I cannot tell you when I will update next, on this or any other fic that is currently being severely neglected, I'm sorry. I can tell you that you will definitely get updated on this before anything else though. I hope you enjoy this, it's been QUITE the journey for me. <3 thank you. And of course, thank you to Kerri for being amazing and reading this & validating me AND for making that dope ass graphic for tumblr AND FOR HELPING WITH THE SUMMARY A LOT OMG KERRI YOU'VE DONE SO MUCH FOR ME THANK YOU I LOVE YOU IM CRYIN.


	2. Chapter 2

He ran. He ran a lot. Feet hitting the sidewalk hard, Ian kept count in his head  _ one two three, one two three  _ while his music blasted in his ears. The counting kept his mind from wandering too much, kept him from going on mental tangents. If not, he’d go from thinking about  something as inane as what to have for lunch, connect a million dots, and end up trying to dissect the inner workings of Monica Gallagher’s thought process.

His legs were starting to burn, so Ian looked down at his watch. Twenty minutes left; had to keep going. He breathed even, in through his nose, out through his mouth. Again and again — _ one two three, one two three _ ; turned a corner, ran around a couple of high schoolers walking to school.  _ One two three, one two three _ .

Ian Gallagher didn’t technically live in South Side anymore. Not really. He was on the border, right smack dab between everything, this odd little limbo between his old and new life. Being a paramedic didn’t pay a whole hell of a lot, but it paid _just_ enough to let him live on his own, in a decently cheap, tiny apartment above a Thai restaurant. He’s lived there for two years so far, and always kept on-time with his rent, didn’t make too much of a ruckus. Landlord was nice enough.

There were a lot of parts about living alone that Ian really loved… and a lot that he really fucking hated. Probably why he liked to run so much; probably why he’d been taking at least two double shifts every week for the past year. Got him out in the open so he wasn’t cooped up alone all the damn time. Ian thought too much, let himself get stuck inside his head too much. And that wasn’t good. Just sucked; just made him fucking sad. Why be sad? Why be sad when you can run and run and run?

Fuck it. So he ran, pushed his body till his legs felt like jelly, pushing himself a little further to run up the stairs to his front door. Two by two —right, left, right, left. He breathed hard, resting his forehead against the hard door, catching his breath while his humming hands searched his gym short pockets for his keys.

He shut and locked his door behind him, padding to the kitchen, shoving his head under the kitchen sinks faucet, and then turned the cold water on, cooling his head down. Ian hummed, grinning; heartbeat in his ears, he turned his head from side to side, soaking his face, letting the water pour into his mouth, then spitting it out.

Everything about his apartment was small and dated, but he loved it anyways —loved it for what it was, at least. _His_. And that was enough. The lighting was fucking terrible, the wood floors were uneven in some parts, the cream wall paint peeling in other parts, and he was decently sure that there was a fucking mouse running around in the walls. But it fulfilled it’s purpose, and despite all the cosmetic problems that could easily be fixed, it was his new home. Shit, the house in South Side was worse. He could deal with a cramped-ass old apartment.

The phone started ringing; it was terribly shrill, and cut through the otherwise silent apartment. Ian groaned loud, turning the tap off. The phone still rang. He ran his hands over his hair, squeezing down against his head, trying to get the water out. Still, the ringing persisted.

“I’m coming,” Ian murmured. He wiped his face off with his t-shirt before tugging it off over his head, making his way to the yellow phone attached to the kitchen wall.

“Hello?” he greeted. 

“You sound like shit,” Mandy’s grinning voice greeted return.

Ian smiled, leaning against the wall, “Just got back from a run. S’fucking hot out.”

“I don’t know how you run every day like that,” Mandy laughed. “Wish I had that motivation.”

Ian chuckled, tossing his sweat-soaked shirt towards the laundry basket in the hallway. He needed to get all that down to the laundromat before he ran out of clothes. “Offer’s still on the table if you wanna join me.”

“Fuck that,” Mandy huffed. 

It was silent for a beat, Ian cradling the phone between his ear and shoulder as balanced on one foot, trying to take his shoes off. “So what’s up? We still going to dinner?”

“Uh,” Mandy sounded a little distracted, papers shifting on her end of the line —probably at the office. “Yeah. I need to talk to you anyways.”

Ian frowned, “Everything okay?”

“Mmhm,” Mandy hummed… admittedly unconvincingly. “Yeah, everything’s fine, just… you know, stuff. In-person stuff, not over-the-phone stuff.”

“Uh huh,” Ian frowned even deeper, one shoe in his hand, the other still on his foot.

Ian had been meeting up with Mandy for dinner every other week for the past… shit, six years? Through all the bullshit, they managed to stay pretty close, telling each other just about everything ( _ mostly _ everything) letting each other be their trashy South Side selves in an area that didn’t  _ necessarily _ not understand that kind of life, but it definitely went a little against the grain. 

They grew up around a different crowd, and when you grow up around around a crowd like that, trying to integrate into the “normal world” could be frustrating and surreal. Sometimes Ian just wanted to get shit-faced and talk about stupid shit they did as kids —talk about drugs and fighting and the destruction of public property— without people looking down at him.

Maybe they were still immature like that though. Maybe they tried to hold on a little too tightly to the past. But shit… they had some good times back then, between the not-so-fun times, the bad times. They had pulled some fun shit, got into trouble, ran around like fucking hellions. But when you grow up, you have to leave all that behind. Everyone goes through it. And Ian didn’t have a problem with growing up, he just wishes he could’ve…

“Let’s make it six?”

“Seven,” Ian cleared his throat, now working on his other shoe. “Shift ends at six, and I don’t think you want me meeting you for dinner smelling like ambulance.”

Mandy made a noise, “No thank you. Alright, I gotta go —you go take a shower, I can smell you from here.”

Ian snorted a laugh, “Asshole.”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m saying you smell like.”

“ _ Goodbye _ Amanda,” Ian spoke over her laugh, then hung the phone back on the receiver. He shook his head, running his hand through his wet hair as he made his way to the bathroom. He really did stink, she hadn’t’ve been wrong there.

He took a quick shower, scrubbing all the sweat from his body, turning it cold for the last few minutes to really wake himself up. After he dressed, he stared at himself in the bathroom mirror for a minute. Seemed fine. Healthy. Amazing what getting your shit together after a couple years of self-medicating sadness with drugs and alcohol will do.

Maybe he’d give Andrew a call tomorrow night, see what he was up to. They’d been hanging out for about a month. Andrew was a bit of a turn from his usual type —guy was real carpool lane, and after years of trying to make it work with the same type of guy, Ian tried to mix it up. So that’s how that happened. 

Ian wouldn't consider them to be boyfriends. Just hanging out. What did celebrities call it when they didn’t want to come out and just say they were just talking and fucking? Enjoying each other’s company. That’s what Ian and Andrew were doing. Enjoying each other’s company. It worked, for now. Ian didn’t really see it going long term or anything like that, but the change of pace was nice.

He dressed for work —his navy pants, his lighter blue button-down uniform shirt. Still tripped him up. A fucking EMT. The rush though, the rush and the feeling of fucking  _ doing something _ , of actually helping people… that’s all Ian had ever wanted. Made him feel good. Made him feel important —needed, wanted.

At half-past nine, Ian locked his front door and headed off to work, like he did every other morning. 

 

* * *

 

The locker room was buzzing, in the wake of a decently bad accident. Ian changed out of his dirty uniform as he listened to the other EMT’s recall their own versions of what happened. That’s how they all dealt with it. It was hard, seeing that shit. Didn’t happen often, thank god, but when it did… it gets to you. Got to Ian too, for a while. 

He doesn’t talk about his side of things though, never really one to share like that. He wishes, sometimes, that he was like that. It looks like it’s such a fucking release. But Ian’s always just thrown his shit onto the pile with his _other_ shit. Trauma, drama, stress… anything that bothers him, it gets tossed in with the rest. He knows it’s not healthy. And he knows that no one can help him or understand what’s going on with him when he doesn’t open his fucking mouth. Ian doesn’t know what his problem is. It’s just the way he’s always been. There has to be a part of him that just… likes it. Right?

He sighs, giving Davis an easy, sympathetic smile when the guy looks at him, nodding a silent question. You okay? Yeah, he’s fine. He’ll be fine. So he nods back, and that seems to do the trick. Everyone knows Ian doesn’t talk about it. Anything. Nothing important, anyways. 

He likes his co-workers. Truly, he does. They got each other’s back, all working together in sync, it flows easy with them… but there’s that part that Ian needs for himself. He can’t just be fucking vulnerable with  _ anyone _ , not even the people he saves lives with. And he knows that’s fucked up, he knows that doesn’t make sense. He should be talking about this shit with Davis, and Shea, and Louise. He should. But he can’t. 

There were only three people that Ian ever just let go and ripped himself open for. One of those people being Mandy (and even with Mandy, there were things he’d never shared; that he  _ couldn’t  _ share). The other two… fuck, Ian can’t even go there with  _ himself _ , let alone anyone else.  _ That  _ was a problem too. That was the thing that Ian stuffed so far down that he felt it festering in his gut, even six and a half years later. He never dealt with that. He never faced it, not really. And when he tried… fuck, sometimes he swears he gets phantom pains in his ribs to this day. He knows he fucked that up. He knows. He knew then.

“Ay, Gallagher,” a voice called out to him, pulling him from the edge of a spiral he didn’t need to go down.

Ian cleared his throat, following the call to see the rest of his crew starting to file out of the locker room already, “Yeah?”

It was Davis, expectant brows high, “You coming to drink with us or nah?”

“Can’t tonight,” Ian replied. “Got a dinner I got to get to.”

Davis’ brows arched even higher as he stopped in the doorway, “Mandy?”

Ian grinned at him, “Yes, Mandy. And no, I’m still not gonna hook you guys up.”

“Come on, man,” Davis laughed, throwing his head back in exasperation.

Ian stuffed his dirty clothes in his duffle, slinging it over his shoulder. He walked past Davis, thumping him hard on the shoulder, “I’m telling you, the girl is a praying fucking mantis. Not even my words —her words. She’d destroy you.” 

Davis whined pathetically, “And I’m okay with that!”

Ian threw his hand up, waving behind him, “See you Monday!”

His car was… functioning. The air conditioning worked most of the time, the heater was a little weak, and the back passenger window only rolled down about four inches. But other than that, it was in pretty good condition. Ian didn’t have any reason to complain about it, it got him where he needed to go. 

The drive home was quick —Ian took his second shower of the day, dressed in his favorite jeans and a plain t-shirt, then ran back down to his car to head over to meet Mandy. They always went to the same place, somewhere they’d been frequenting since they were in high school. This shitty little burger joint a block or so away from where Ian used to work as a kid, the Kash and Grab. 

Whenever he drives past that place, Ian can’t help but briefly think of his old boss… of Kash. What a stupid situation he’d gotten himself into. It had been brief, and the glamour of having an older “boyfriend” drowned out all other logic. Then things happened, and Kash left, and Ian was left wondering what the fuck he was thinking, being with a fucking creep like that. Letting that perv into his life like that. Ian always shakes his head at those memories. That kid —who he used to be— didn’t have a chance. That kid was just that… a kid. Young and dumb, Ian tells himself sometimes. Real fucking dumb.

He’s been told time and time again that his part in his “relationship” with Kash was the part of a victim. He’s been told that there were unfair power-dynamics between boss/employee as well as age. The age thing was… probably the biggest problem. Logically, Ian knows all this to be true. But still, he can’t help but chalk it up to him being stupid. It’s easier to take, that way. Ian’s not a victim. Hates that word. Hates it fiercely.

Mandy’s smoking in front of the restaurant when Ian pulls up. She’s leaning against the front of the building, one arm crossed over her middle, not even noticing when Ian pulls up a couple feet away from her to park. Lost in her own world —looks like she’s got a lot on her mind. Ian frowns when he sees her.

“Hey,” he greets, coming up on her right, reaching out for her shoulder.

She jumps a little, then grins at Ian when she sees that it’s him, “Hey.”

They hug; Ian takes a quick drag off her cigarette, even though he’s been trying to quit. Can’t help himself sometimes though, and he might as well since they’re standing there. The sun is hanging low, and the air is balmy. Perfect for a quick smoke-cheat, in Ian’s opinion.

“Everything okay?” he asks her.

Mandy hesitates, but nods, “Yeah.”

“ _That_ was convincing,” Ian sighs, leaning against the building next to her. “Seriously, what’s going on?”

She presses her lips together tightly, looking down at the ground, and there’s this long pause that makes Ian think that there’s something seriously wrong. Like maybe she’s fucking sick, or someone died or something.

“Mandy, seriously,” Ian presses.

“Come on,” she throws her cigarette on the sidewalk, crushing it under her shoe. Doesn’t even wait for Ian to respond before she’s walking into the burger joint. Ian follows her like a lost, confused puppy.

She doesn’t even talk until the high-as-shit teenage waiter drops their burgers and sodas down in front of them. Big basket of fries to share. Ian always gets double cheese. Mandy gets bacon added to hers, extra ketchup and pickles. But Mandy not talking scares Ian, and of course his mind runs a million miles an hour trying not to think of the worst case scenarios here.

“Okay, so…” Mandy sighs, looking at Ian finally. “Mickey’s out.”

Ian just sits there. They don’t talk about Mickey, not really, not anymore. They used to a lot. Ian would ask about Mickey  _ constantly _ , ask how he’s doing, ask if he needed money in his commissary. He never did, and it wouldn’t’ve been okay if Ian put money in there, but he could never help himself when Mickey was locked up. Especially after...

But then Ian made himself stop asking about Mickey so much, until he got to this point where he never brought him up ever again. Mickey became another addition to Ian’s pile of things he doesn’t think about, talk about, deal with. It wasn’t fair. Nothing with Mickey was fair though —Mickey never  _ got  _ fair, was never  _ allowed  _ fair. It just hurt so much, because Ian had loved Mickey so fucking much, and then…

He shook his head, clearing his throat, “For how long?”

“Two weeks,” Mandy answered. “Didn’t know if I should tell you or not. Didn’t know if you wanted to know.”

He felt numb. Ian nodded, despite the numbness, “Okay.”

Mandy pauses, “... _ okay _ ?”

“I don’t know what else to say,” Ian rakes fingers through his hair, suddenly not very hungry. 

“Are you kidding me?” Mandy scowls at him. And Ian swallows hard, looking across the table at his best friend. She hasn’t looked at him like that in a long time. Has she ever looked at him like that? Pure fire. Pure Milkovich fire. 

“Listen, I don’t know what the  _ fuck  _ happened between you three all those years ago, but seriously the fact that I hesitated to tell you that one of your best friends got out of prison two weeks ago is pathetic.”

Ian sits there; he takes it.

“You never even visited him,” Mandy says. “Not fucking _once_. And he loved you, you know he loved you. You were fucking  _ family  _ to him, Ian. He would’ve done  _ anything  _ for you. If  _ you _ were the one locked up, he would’ve gotten himself locked up too to have your back, you know that.”

Ian does know that. He knows that better than anyone else in the fucking world. But Mandy doesn’t know —about  _ anything _ ; doesn’t even know about Mickey being gay. Ian’s never told her. Mickey’s never told her. Svetlana’s never told her. No one has ever told her anything, and never planned on telling her anything. 

Only a very select few people knew  _ anything _ : Svetlana (obviously), Sully, Lip, and Fiona (but only because she’d caught them making out in Ian’s bed one night).

A lot of people could call her oblivious, and maybe she was to a certain extent, but no one wanted her to know about shit that could get her in trouble with Terry. And knowing about Ian and Mickey’s friendship being more than it was? Terry finding out that she’d known? Absolutely fucking not, even though she was out of South Side, out of anything to do with the club. Not worth the risk, not to Mickey and Ian. What a fucking cop-out, but it was for her own good that she never knew.

“Listen, I know Mickey’s a piece of shit, but he’s still my brother. So if he did something, just tell me. What happened?” Mandy asked. “Ian?”

Ian opens his mouth, shuts it tight. He shakes his head, “I can’t…”

She pushes her plate away from her, seemingly not hungry anymore either. “You’re gonna shut down on  _ me _ ? Seriously? What the fuck?”

“I can’t,” Ian says slow, like he’s got sand in his mouth. His eyes are stinging. He’s shoving down so many years of friendship with Mickey, and their last four years together, when… when they...

She closes her eyes, searching for patience. She takes a deep breath, “If you don’t want to fucking tell me, whatever. I just thought you should know.”

Ian swallows hard, nods, “Thanks.”

Mandy shakes her head at him and lets out an ugly scoff of a laugh, grabbing her keys off the table. Ian doesn’t stop her when she stands up, “Like you give a shit.”

He lets her leave him there with the food, and the bill. Doesn’t try to stop her, doesn’t try to explain himself. He probably should. Probably should come up with some kind of story, some lie. He hates lying —used to do it so much that it was like second nature to him. But he’s always hated it. He was too good at it.

Ian sits there for longer than he should, breathing as evenly as he could, staring at Mandy’s cheeseburger, trying to zone out and _not_ think about Mickey. It’s so hard to not think about Mickey though. Ian had always been a little in love with him, ever since they were kids. It just grew and grew and grew, until it was so big that it sweetly suffocated him from the inside out.

Hadn’t seen Mickey in six years. Hadn’t seen that smile, hadn’t heard that voice in six fucking years.

“Is she coming back?” the waiter cuts Ian’s thought’s off at the legs, forcing him back out of his head, thank god.

“Uh, no,” Ian shakes his head. He takes his wallet out of his back pocket, throwing a twenty on the table. 

The waiter scratched at the back of his neck, “Okay...”

“Sorry,” he clears his throat. He leaves before waiting for any other kind of response. He can’t pin down a single thought, can’t figure anything out. He’s feeling too much, and thinking too much, and he just wants it to stop, he just wants to figure out what he’s feeling.

But he  _ knows  _ what he’s feeling. Suddenly he’s nineteen years old again, staring at this battered boy he’s loved since he figured out what the fuck that even meant. Staring at a girl who he considered his sister. Staring at this battered boy and this scared girl being put on display while a gun is held to his fucking head. He’s nineteen years old, and he’s begging with blood in his mouth. He’s nineteen years old, and his heart is lying on the ground next to him. Nineteen years old, and he’s crying harder than he’d ever cried in his fucking life.

Ian’s sitting in his car, staring at his steering wheel. Still in the parking lot. Car’s not even on. Keys aren’t in the ignition. He stares at the wheel and tells himself to stop, tells himself to knock it the fuck off. He wraps his hands around the wheel hard, squeezes tight tight tight. 

“FUCK!” he finally lets lets himself yell. He yells loud, yells it over and over again. Blurry vision and all, he’s fucking crying and his ribs ache.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, he wakes up to the taste of sour coating his mouth. Face down on his bed, sheets twisted around his legs, Ian groans, but doesn’t get up. Not yet. Finally, he notices that his alarm is going off on his bedside table. It was all muffled and far away at first, but then suddenly loud and piercing. He can barely move to turn it off.

His whole body hurts. Aches. All the way down to his bones, he aches. When he finally is able to lift his arm and let his hand fall on top of his bedside table, it doesn’t land on the alarmclock, it lands on an empty glass bottle, sliding off and falling to the floor with a heavy clunk. Ian groans again; the clunk triggered the lingering headache in the back of his brain, bringing it screaming to the front. The alarms keeps going off, biting at his nerves now. He tries again, turning his head to see what he’s doing. He hits the button. Silence. Finally.

There would be no running this morning.

“Fuck,” Ian mouths. He still can’t move. His body fails to cooperate, fails to give a shit to cooperate. 

Finally, with some great effort, Ian manages to roll onto his back to stare up at the ceiling. He closes his eyes, just for a moment. Opens them back up. Breathes. Mandy’s voice keeps trying to whisper in his ear, and he pushes it back every time. His head hurts too fucking bad, he can’t start thinking about… fuck, about Mickey.

Ian stretches as best as he can, moving his arms out, pushing his legs towards the end of his bed. When he bends his elbows and rolls his shoulders, the back of his hand brushes over a piece of paper stuck to the pillow beside him. Ian frowns, gingerly grabbing the piece of paper, holding it in front of his face to read.

_ Had a great night, thanks —R _

“Jesus, Ian...” Ian mutters under his breath, scolding himself as he glances at the phone number scribbled under the message. 

The night before comes to mind in short bursts of chaotic colors. He doesn’t remember. Doesn’t even care. Ian sighs, forcing his body to sit up, sliding his legs over the side of the bed, just sitting there for a minute, glad he wasn’t fucking working. He crumples up the piece of paper and tosses it on the floor. He hadn’t done something like that in a long while. 

Well, at least they had a good time.

It takes him ten minutes to find the motivation to raise to his feet. When he’s under the hot blast of water in his shower, he stands there for longer than he needs to before he starts washing off last night’s mistake. His head is still throbbing, and while he’s in the shower he hears the shrill ring of his phone.

There’s no clean towels, of course. Why would there be. They’re all in his fucking laundry basket that needs to be taken to the laundromat. So, Ian’s left naked and dripping all over the fucking place, and his head hurts too much to care about that either. He grabs a t-shirt from his dresser to dry off as well as he can, ignoring the phone when it rings again, letting the answering machine pick up while he gets dressed.

“Yo,” It’s Lip. “Uh, I got a couple hours without the wife and kid, wanted to know if you wanted to grab lunch or some shit. Thought we’d drop by the diner, see Fi. Call me back at the house.”

Ian sighs, finally dressed. He walks to his answering machine. He’s got two messages; he rewinds the tape to the first, letting it play.

“Listen, asshole,” Mandy’s voice plays. “I walked out and that’s not cool, but you shutting down on me like that wasn’t cool either. We don’t do that to each other. We talk. So fucking talk to me. Call me back. Love you.”

The weekend ticks by slow. Ian meets with Lip for lunch at the diner though, talks to him and Fiona for a bit. But not about Mickey. He suspects that they know though, by the way they carefully ask him what he’s been up to, and all that. Like Ian hasn’t been doing the same fucking thing for the past few years, like they expect him to come back with some news about getting a fucking dog or something. 

But Ian runs. He runs a lot. Probably more than he should. He just has to get his fucking head right, he has to get back to center. Obviously he knew that Mickey wouldn’t be in prison forever. He knew that he’d come home one day, and he’d have to face that. He thought he’d handle it better. He thought that after six years he’d be able to just smile and nod at Mandy, congratulating her on her brother’s return. How fucking stupid he’d been.

And the urge to aimlessly drive around South Side is fucking strong. It’s so strong, but Ian makes himself stay put. He rebels against that pull to find Mickey and talk to him, or just see him. If he could just see him for a moment… does he look different? Couldn’t look  _ that  _ much different, but you never know. He wonders if Mickey’s tried to grow out his patchy beard, wonders if he still wears that gold chain. Wonders if his smile is still the same.

Ian dreams about Mickey on Sunday night. 

_ “Happy birthday,” Mickey breathes into Ian’s mouth. He’s got Ian backed up against the wall in the dugouts, hand grabbing at his ass. “Owe you eighteen spanks, right?” _

_ Ian’s so fucking hard, but he laughs, arching away from Mickey’s full mouth, “You fucking spank me, and I’ll kill you.” _

_ Mickey laughs with him, but pulls him back, kissing him again. Mickey kisses deep, always kisses deep. Ian moans into his mouth, lips and tongues sliding against each other. He grabs at the sides of Mickey’s face, feeling his body rev up, needing this like oxygen, needing this like he can never be whole without it. Mickey pushes his leg between Ian’s; sweet pressure, moving against each other. Mickey sighs, hands moving under Ian’s shirt, touching his skin. _

_ “What do you want, birthday boy?” Mickey asks him. Moves his lips down Ian’s neck, tasting and sucking gentle. Can’t mark him up, but Ian wants it so fucking bad. Want’s Mickey’s marks all over his body. _

_ Ian grins, tilting his head back, giving his boyfriend more room, “You know what I want. Say it.” He loves when Mickey says it. Loves when Mickey says anything really, but especially this kind of shit. He loves that Mickey isn't afraid to speak up, isn't afraid to lay out what he wants or needs, what he wants to do. Mickey's complicated and sometimes contradictory... but when they're together, it couldn't be more simple. _

_ Then Mickey’s kisses and tongue move up Ian’s neck, pressing harder against him, he breathes against Ian’s ear, “You want me to suck your cock.” _

_ Can’t help it; Ian whines low, “Say it the other way,” he begs. _

Monday morning, he wakes up like a mess of a thirteen year old. It’s embarrassing.

 

* * *

 

“Ian! Davis! Louise!” Shea’s voice is calling through the common area, “We gotta go, now!”

There’s no time to think about anything else other than his job. One moment, Ian’s spooning Froot Loops into his mouth, the next he’s grabbing his bag and heading towards the ambulance. It’s perfect chaos. Not even chaos, just an orchestrated habit of throwing, catching and placing gear. In less than two minutes, they’re driving out of the garage.

“What do we got?” Ian asks.

“Motorcycle accident; Bridgeport,” Shea answers. She speaks into the radio, “Seven minutes out.” Shea is a beast behind the wheel, alarm blaring while she speeds down roads, cutting corners quickly. She’s a fucking pro.

Ian swallows hard, “South Side?”

Davis looks at him funny, “You okay?”

He nods longer than he should, “Yeah.” He tells himself it’s just a coincidence. Lots of people ride motorcycles. Mickey could ride his with his fucking eyes closed, there’s no way it’s him. 

“Vic?” Louise asks from the passenger seat.

“White male; twenties; unresponsive,” Shea answers, makes a hard left turn, blaring her horn. She pulls the radio up to her mouth again, “Three minutes.”

That could be anybody, Ian reminds himself. Anybody can buy a fucking motorcycle, anybody can ride around, get in an accident. Davis is shaking his head across from Ian, “Don’t know why these idiots ride those stupid things. Fucking deathtrap.” Ian just looks at him, doesn’t respond. He’s got to get his shit together, it’s not Mickey. He’s got to focus. 

And when they pull up, and Ian is scrambling out of the back of the ambulance, he can breathe for about three seconds, because it’s  _ not _ Mickey laying there in the middle of the road. From the looks of it, it’s one of those fucking idiots that buy a motorcycle and a brand new leather jacket, and brand new sunglasses, without knowing what the fuck they’re doing. Ian could be wrong about this guy, he knows. But all he can hear for half a second is Mickey’s old rantings about those types of guys. Fucking fakes, all that shit. Mickey hates those guys.

They get to work, stabilizing the guys neck, doing what they have to do. Perfectly in sync, they get him on a gurney and into the ambulance within minutes. The guy’s still there, just knocked the fuck out. Evidently, he was cut off by a car and lost control, going by what everyone who saw it go down are saying. Ian hears more of Mickey’s old rants, and he has to stop himself from grinning at the memory of how loud and annoyed his voice would get, how every other word was fuck, how his hands flew everywhere. The memory doesn’t make him hurt. Makes him warm, makes him grounded. Fuck, he missed Mickey.

On the way to the hospital, Ian lets himself lean back and relax for a second, looking out the front window as Shea speeds around. They’re driving through his old haunts, part of his old neighborhood. Ian breathes deep, getting back into focus. Hard to focus that clearly though, when they whiz past the baseball fields.

Can’t go there, not right now. He closes his eyes for two seconds, only two seconds, pushing down everything that’s not inside of this ambulance right now. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please Note!  
> 1\. remember the tags  
> 2\. remember who Terry is & everything that comes with him .

He woke up sweating, and hard as a fucking rock. Mickey laid there on damp sheets, staring up at the dark ceiling. His breath was caught in his throat, replaying the dream. The hand gripping his thigh, lips and teeth on his throat. Mickey closed his eyes tight, willing the images away, but failing fucking miserably. 

“Fuck,” Mickey whispered into the darkness, reaching for the lamp on his nightstand. He flicked it on, releasing the soft yellow glow that illuminated his room at the clubhouse. He’d been sleeping here for the past few nights, just needing some fucking space. (Worked out great because his piece of shit dad had spent the last few days holed up in room, high as shit, leaving him alone)

The images kept coming. Of him. Of Ian. They attacked like a swarm of bees, stinging him with this pull of a mix between yearning and hurt. It wasn’t even just sex, what he’d been dreaming about. It wasn’t just the way that Ian held him and fucked him hard enough to make him forget his own fucking name. Wasn’t just that. If it was, it would probably be fucking easier to push down. But no. Couldn’t be easier. Couldn’t just be sex. 

You don’t fall in love with your best friend, and only dream about their cock six years later.

He sat up a little, glancing at his watch on the nightstand. Barely after three o’clock in the fucking morning. He looked across his room, at his door. It was locked; knew it was locked, but he just had to check. Mickey shook his head at himself, cursing under his breath. His hand hesitated, but his body was still keyed up. Still hard and aching. He could try to ignore it. When it came to Ian, that’s what he’d been doing for a while now. Ignoring that pull to replay memories and get himself off to them. Seemed wrong, somehow. Like he didn’t deserve that, like he lost that privilege when he slammed his boot into Ian’s jaw.

But here he was, alone, finally. Here he was in a locked room, with lube in the nightstand drawer. Here he was with a screaming erection at three in the morning. No risk of a cellmate waking up, or a guard walking by. No risk of whispering the wrong thing, and being heard. He was okay. Safe, even.  _ Relatively _ safe. Even with Terry just down the hall, he’s been safer than he ever has been in a long time.

Took him longer than he thought it would have —to get to this point. Two weeks at home, and he’d managed to keep Ian out of his dreams… managed to keep him out of his thoughts while he jerked off… probably a new record.

“Fuck it,” Mickey breathed, snatching the tube of lube out of his nightstand drawer. He groaned in part annoyance, part anticipation, flopping down on the mattress again, pushing his boxers down, kicking them off along with his blanket. 

There’s only one thing he can think about right now. One single fucking moment; he can’t push it away, can’t divert his attention elsewhere. Lube in his palm, he grips himself hard and closes his eyes even harder.

Mickey bites down on his bottom lip, remembering. Remembering how Ian dragged him into one of those abandoned buildings  _ —their _ building— and how he’d pushed Mickey against a wall and kissed him hard. Ian had grabbed onto his cut, and Mickey moaned at that. He remembers how while his fingers were sinking into red hair, Ian’s were working his belt open. 

They’d been fire. They’d been a tornado of heat and want. Couldn’t get enough of each other back then, couldn’t stop themselves from sneaking off at every fucking chance they could steal. Mickey in his leather cut, Ian in his worn-in jean jacket; motorcycle boots against busted Converse; thread-bare t-shirt against flannel; black and red. Fucking  _ fire _ .

“Fuck,” Mickey whispers for what seems like the tenth time, his head pushing back into his pillow, chin pointing up at the ceiling. He remembers Ian’s mouth on his throat. Remembers Ian’s hot breath and his hand slipping into his pants. Remembers how good it felt to hear his name being breathed against his ear.

Mickey’s hand slips lower, remembering how Ian’s had done the same. Slipping lower and tugging at his balls, slipping lower and pressing against his perineum. He shudders, remembering how Ian jerkily turned him around, pushing him face-first into that wall, pushing his jeans and boxers down further, exposing him to the balmy air. He shudders and remembers teasing fingers, and spit, and a bite to the back of neck. 

Ian knew just how to manhandle Mickey. Knew how to fucking own him. 

“C’mon,” he mouthed, just like Ian did, switching hands on his cock so he could keep going. He hitches one leg up, reaching down, reaching around under his leg. He hates that he’s all spread open and vulnerable like this  _ alone _ , but he wasn’t able to do it like this for six fucking  _ years _ , so fuck his pride for just a few goddamn minutes. 

Slipping fingers. Slipping and pressing and opening himself up while he stroked tight. Wasn’t like Ian, but it was good. “C’mon,” he mouthed again, pressing inside of himself.

When he presses his fingers inside, he remembers Ian pressing inside him. How he held his hand against the wall, lips pressed tightly to Mickey’s ear,  _ Let me hear you, _ Ian had said, filling him up. Stretching him. That burn. That fucking burn made his eyes sting, forced a chill up his spine.

Mickey wishes he had something instead of his fingers. But it’s all he’s got right now, so they have to do. The memory of Ian fucking him in their building is so clear, so blindingly fucking clear that it’s more than enough to get him where he needs to go. And he needs it. Needs it so fucking bad. Quickly, he eases his fingers out of himself and gets more lube, shoving back inside. Easier this time. Slick and easy. 

Mickey can’t give Ian what he wants right now. He can’t moan and let it all out. He bites down hard on his bottom lip and breathes harshly through his nose. It’s caught in the back of his throat, that noise. He won’t let it out, but he almost does when his fingers seek out that sweet spot inside. He lets go of his lip and his mouth drops open, eyes rolling back, head pressing back into the pillow. 

He presses and slides and strokes, hips canting as much as they can, given his position. His mouth forms words, but no sound comes out. He needs more. Needs so much more, but he’s all he’s got right now, so he pushes another finger inside of himself and moves his hand faster and tighter along his cock.

He remembers Ian kissing and tasting behind his ear, remembers the smell of his sweat, the harsh slap of hips against his ass. Remembers every fucking detail. And Ian’s voice. Remembers that. All husky and rough in his ear,  _ God, I fucking love you _ . 

That’s all it takes.

 

* * *

 

Ten hours later, Mickey pulls a face as he wipes down the earpiece of a payphone, then the mouthpiece. He cradled it between his ear and shoulder, shoving in some quarters, punching the number he had memorized from so fucking long ago. An old contact that probably wasn’t even around anymore, or available—

“Yeah,” A voice answered. Music played low in the background; the sound of a lighter flicking to life.

Mickey coughed, “Ay.”

“Who’s this?” The voice hesitated.

He looked down both sides of the sidewalk, “Mickey,” he answered.

A pause, then, “Holy shit... you’re out already?”

“Yeah,” Mickey nodded, leaning against the payphone, keeping his eyes tracking around him. So far, so good. He swallowed hard, briefly closing his eyes before he continued, “You around?”

Ryan paused, the telltale sounds of someone sucking down on a joint filling the gap before he answered, “Around for what?”

Mickey clenched his jaw tight, “Don’t have time for the bullshit, Ryan. Been locked up for six years, the fuck you  _ think _ I’m asking what you’re around for?”

Ryan chuckled at that, “Thought you were a married man now?”

“Fuck off,” Mickey scowled, looking around yet again. A couple girls passed him, but they were too busy talking to notice him. “If you’re not around—”

“Oh, I’m around,” Ryan cut him off. “Just thought you didn’t wanna hang anymore. What with that fine ass redhead—”

“That’s done,” Mickey bit out, shoving down the thoughts of his three-in-the-morning activities. He only had a little longer left on the phone, and talking about Ian right now was the  _ last _ thing he needed. He didn't need  _ real _ right now.

The guy knew too much —didn’t know  _ that _ much, but knew more than Mickey was comfortable with. But Mickey had an itch. He had a six year itch that needed to be scratched.  _ Badly _ . He was tired of waiting. Waiting for  _ what _ exactly, he didn’t know. So he had to take matters into his own hands —more so than what he’d done already. He needed to check-out, he needed to not be whoever the fuck he was for just a little bit. He could take care of himself, but it wasn’t the same.

One thing that became very fucking clear after he came so fucking hard he got dizzy this morning, was that it was getting out of hand —keeping the illusion up. Started fucking with his head. And he forgot how much it fucked with his head. Felt like he was sixteen years old again, desperate and jittery for a touch he actually  _ wanted _ . 

All of it made the itch worse. He was getting too much of shit he didn’t want. That girl that hung around the club was becoming more of a regular thing —Hannah. And Sully had made an offhand comment about popping too many blue pills would break his dick. 

When the itch got bad, he got a little reckless. Kind of fucking embarrassing, like he couldn’t fucking chill out until he got what he needed. And it was a  _ need _ , at this point; needed that fix or else he’d lose his goddamn mind. Most times it paid off though. He was hoping that now was one of those times it would, hoping that Ryan was still available —never one for relationships, never one for any kind of commitments ever. 

( _ fuck, those pills wouldn’t really break his dick, would they? _ )

Reckless sexual frustration lead Mickey to call up Ryan. They used to fuck around. Before. Someone that, back in the day, Mickey trusted  _ enough _ . Trusted enough to get what he really wanted, trusted enough to call in the middle of the fucking day to ask for a hookup. Ryan wasn’t ever the  _ best _ fuck, but he got the job done and had a nice enough cock. Who knows, maybe he’d gotten better since they fucked last. Hopefully.

“You telling me no one’s scratched your back since you got locked up?” Ryan laughed. “And you’re calling little ol’ me? Gotta say, I’m flattered.”

Mickey grunted in frustration, “I don’t got time for this shit, man.”

“Chill out, I’m messing with you. How about you stop by tonight,” Ryan said. “Get you set up real nice.”

Mickey nodded, feeling his body perk up at the idea, “You still at the same place?”

“Yeah, man,” Ryan answered. “Not going anywhere. Be here at… ten —eleven?”

Mickey confirmed, then hung up the phone before he heard anything else. He took a deep breath, pressing his hands to his forehead, shoving them backwards over his hair. He took another deep breath, then another, before he got back onto his bike. Felt like a goddamn junkie, begging for his next high. Pathetic.

He wasn’t really paying attention to where he was going. Just riding up and down streets, turning every once in a while. That phone call shook him up more than he liked. Got him thinking. Thinking about people he tried to let go for six years. 

Not people. Person.  _ Ian _ . 

It hurts so fucking much. On a cellular level, it burns and stings and just… hurts. Tried to ignore that hurt for six years. Tried to make believe that it didn’t exist. But Mickey was never good at fooling himself, not when it came to Ian.

He felt like such a little bitch, still being hung up on him. Especially after this morning. 

You don’t just get over Ian Gallagher though. Not when you’re Mickey Milkovich. You can’t just walk away and pretend that it never existed, can’t act like they didn’t have history dating back to elementary school on top of their last four years together. Mickey tried, but he always knew it was a lost cause. Ian was more than an ex-boyfriend; he’d  _ always _ been more.

It was left so messy, left so fucked up. Left with Ian’s face all busted up and bruises on his ribs. Still made Mickey feel guilty as fuck, still made him sick. Even though he was going through the worst kinds of hell, he shouldn’t’ve put his hands on Ian like that. He knew. He knew he fucked up. He was so fucking angry, and Ian kept pushing. 

Mickey had been the train, and Ian refused to jump out of the way before it was too late.

The thing about Ian was that he was ingrained under Mickey’s skin; he was tucked in under his ribs. Mickey couldn’t just  _ get over  _ him. He couldn’t move on, it was near fucking impossible. The longer he was out of prison, the more he grew tired of the life he was  _ forced _ to live because of his father, the harder it became to push those feelings down. Couldn’t ignore it anymore. Couldn’t. Fiona told him to stay away, and Mickey was trying his hardest to follow her lead on that. But,  _ fuck _ .  

Growing up together like they did… Ian’s parents were a shitshow. His whole family was a shitshow. Mickey’s family was never much better —especially after his mom died.  _ Of course  _ he and Ian gravitated towards each other.  _ Of course _ they brought Svetlana in, too. Of course they did. How could they fucking not? 

From elementary school on, it was the three of them. Mickey was always promised to the club. Destined to be inked in when he became of age. Svetlana’s fate was sealed to become an ol’ lady, everyone knew. So they took every second of time they could steal before then. 

There was a time when Ian entertained the idea of joining the club. Mickey talked him out of it. Didn’t seem right. Mickey never wanted that for Ian. Mickey was  _ bred _ for it; Ian had potential for bigger things —better things — _ legit _ things that didn’t revolve around crime and drugs, and looking over your shoulder constantly… not to mention the women. Ian had potential to be free, to be  _ himself _ .

Mickey cursed under his breath when he saw that he’d ended up at the baseball field. He stayed on his bike, letting it run as he just stared at it. Even before he and Ian started fucking around together, this was their spot —more so than their building. Sneaking out in the middle of the night to drink beer and talk shit. This is where it started.

And then… that one night. That one night that changed everything. They went from best friends to something more. Sixteen years old, hot as fuck summer night, cold beer… Mickey couldn’t stop staring at Ian. Couldn’t stop thinking all these  _ things _ about his best friend —things you’re not supposed to think about your best friend,  _ ever _ . He’d always known about himself, but he’d kept his mouth shut about it, never telling Ian. Always finding other ways to ease himself, always fucking around with other boys who didn’t know Ian, so there was no overlap.

But Ian  _ knew _ Mickey, besides that one thing. He knew every part of him and his life, had been there when Mickey’s mom died… he knew him. Except for  _ that _ . And Mickey knew Ian —knew about the part of Ian that matched up with his part. Because Ian wasn’t ashamed, Ian wasn’t scared, not really. Didn’t have a reason to be. They kept it secret though, and Ian knew Mickey wouldn’t fucking snitch on him, because Mickey would rather die than do that to Ian.

Then that night happened, and maybe Mickey had just felt too good, maybe he’d just let his guard down too much, had a little too much beer… let himself go a little too much. Because fuck, he wanted him. Plain and simple, Mickey  _ wanted _ his best friend. Wanted to know him more, wanted to know his skin and his taste, wanted to know how he felt.

Fingers brushing each other as they passed the cigarette between each other, shotgunning beers… Mickey felt this tightness in his gut when Ian’s lips pressed against the can, right where his lips had been. He’d never felt that before then, not for Ian. And not that fucking  _ heavy _ , either. 

But Ian was  _ beautiful _ , and Mickey didn’t know that night that for the next four years the two of them would… he didn’t know it would get so intense… didn’t know that they’d say things to each other. Real things. Serious things. He didn’t didn’t know that in the four years following that night he’d give everything to Ian. As much as he could, given the circumstances. Mickey would’ve given more, if he weren’t so scared. He would’ve. 

And, god, they had been standing so close. So fucking close. Mickey couldn’t stop watching the redhead, couldn’t stop thinking and fantasizing about all these  _ what if’s _ . You’re not supposed to think that shit about your best friend. But he couldn’t help it; he could smell the soap on Ian’s skin from where he was standing, he could feel the warm breath bleed over his skin when the redhead laughed. It happened so slowly. So fucking perfect. That first...

A blaring ambulance siren tore Mickey’s attention away from the dugouts. He cleared his throat, revving his bikes engine a couple times, getting himself to focus again. Couldn’t do that. He couldn’t keep thinking of the past. About Ian. Especially about Ian. He had to let it go, let Ian go. He had to.

 

* * *

 

“Quit with the fucking Russian, you know I hate that shit,” Mickey talked over Svetlana’s harsh language.

She pointed at him, continuing on despite him. Mickey sighed, leaning back in the kitchen chair, grabbing for his carton of cigarettes. In hindsight, he probably should have told her a  _ couple weeks ago _ about his meeting with Tony. Not an hour before he had to have a little sit-down with a bunch of detectives working an apparently serious fucking case against Terry.

Svetlana hated cops.

“This is a stupid fucking idea, Mickey,” she finally moved back to English. “This is not how we do things —this isn’t how we were fucking raised to do things!”

“I know!” He raised his voice to match her volume, louder even. “Which is why it makes the most fucking sense to do it this way! You know I’m right.”

She shook her head, pacing back and forth in the kitchen, “They’re gonna set you up.”

Mickey lit up, “Lana, they don’t have fuckall on me. I’m not involved in whatever the fuck my dad’s got going on.”

“You don’t know that,” Svetlana scoffed.

“Tony said it was bad,” Mickey blew out a big cloud of smoke, watching Svetlana take a seat across from him finally, getting a cigarette of her own. “Said it wouldn’t be something me or anyone else that fucking matters would be involved in. Plus, I was in fucking prison for six years. I didn’t  _ do _ shit.”

She was quiet for a while. unlit cigarette held between her fingers, tapping the butt of it on the table as she watched him. Mickey shrugged his shoulders, shaking his head. She rolled her eyes, “This is dangerous.”

“Our whole fucking plan was dangerous from the start,” Mickey countered. “It was  _ stupid _ , and way more fucking risky than this. This way, there’s no blood on our hands, we can walk away fucking  _ clean _ .”

She huffed a laugh as she finally lit her cigarette, “Never be fucking clean.”

He quirked a brow at that in agreement, but they didn't have the time to head down that road right now. “I can make this work for us  _ —all _ of us. I can make a deal, get legit papers so we can go. So we don’t have to fucking drop everything in the middle of the night, we can just  _ go _ .”

Svetlana gave him that  _ you’re a dumbass  _ look, “We talked about this before, you can’t just drop the club like that, everyone knows that. Don’t be fucking stupid, Mickey, it doesn’t look good on you.”

Mickey gnawed on his bottom lip, not wanting to think about it, but it had to be considered. Because Svetlana was right. He couldn’t just quit like nothing. Couldn’t just opt out one day, especially after Terry would be busted for whatever the fuck he had going on. “Then I get burned out,” it came out a little weaker than he intended. Pathetic.

“No,” Svetlana shook her head, eyes wide. “Fuck that,  _ no _ .”

“You got a better plan?” Mickey’s brows raised high. He took another drag, blowing out hard, “M’all fucking ears here.”

“We stick to what we said —shut up and let me finish,” Svetlana pointed at him when he tried to interrupt. “If you trust these cops, you do what you have to do, make all the deals you want… but we leave how we said we would leave.  _ Without  _ the club knowing.”

“And then what?” Mickey asked. “Sully and Colin, and Ig… m’not worried about them, they’ll be fine, they’ll let me go. But the others? The old-timers —the other guys close to my dad, what about them?”

“We’ll figure something out,” Svetlana said. “We always do. That was the plan all along.  _ Figure something out _ . Where we’re going, they’ll never know. That’s why we picked it.”

Mickey shook his head, “If not, I’m gonna—”

“You’re  _ not _ getting burned out,” Svetlana cut him off. “That’s off the table. Shut the fuck up. You already lost six fucking years for them, you’re not giving them  _ that  _ too.”

Mickey couldn’t help but breath a harsh laugh at her tone. He opened his mouth to say something, but the front door opened and closed, the sound of keys being dropped on a table, heels clicking on the hardwood floor. He exchanged a look with Svetlana, who was trying to turn her worried face into a happy one, for the sake of her girl.

He’d never met Svetlana’s girlfriend before. And he didn’t know what to expect, but what he heard before what he saw was definitely not what he expected. A heavy accent, talking fast, barely taking a breath. 

“You wouldn’t believe the traffic tonight, I almost got hit three times. So, I don’t know if dinner is still hot —I went to that little place you like where they make their own pasta, with the tables and the candles. We should have just gone out tonight, it’s so romantic there, they had this guy playing guitar—”

She stopped short in the doorway of the kitchen, food containers in hand. The girl was pretty. Long, dark hair, wide brown eyes, olive skin. She was dressed for an office job, heels and one of those business jackets over a form-fitting but smart dress. She looked shocked, eyeing Svetlana carefully, lips parting like she wanted to call out for her.

Svetlana got up from the table, gesturing Mickey, “No, no no no. This is Mickey.”

Slowly, her shoulders dropped. She let out a big breath of relief, nodding her head, then looked at Svetlana, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know he was here —I didn't know you were here,” she then said again to Mickey, so fucking apologetic. Like she was intruding. Like she didn’t belong.

Mickey shook his head, realizing that this girl was either scared of his kind in general, or scared of  _ him _ for whatever reason. Svetlana spoke up first though, walking to her, “Es, it’s okay. He’s okay, I told you that.”

Es nodded, handing over the food containers to Svetlana, “I know, I just… wasn’t expecting… I am just caught off guard, I’m fine.”

She was rattled. Mickey got up from the table, shrugging his cut off and hanging it over his shoulder, thinking maybe it was freaking this girl out or something. He stepped up, introducing himself, holding his hand out, “Mickey,” he said.

Finally, she smiled. Took a deep breath, nodding her head and smiled, like she was finding her footing again, getting back her balance. Her smile was bright and big, and kind of made Mickey grin a little in return. She shook his hand, “Estefania —or Es, Sveta calls me Es.”

He nodded, letting her hand go when it was the right time, “Es. Got it.”

There was an awkward pause, the three of them standing together, looking at each other. Mickey shoved his hands into his jean pockets, clearing his throat. Svetlana tapped the bottom of the food container, clicking her tongue. Es pushed her thick hair out out of her face.

Nah. Wasn’t happening tonight. Mickey reached back behind him on the kitchen counter for his keys and cigarettes, “Well, I gotta get the fuck outta here. Got a meeting…”

“Yeah,” Svetlana cleared her throat. “Let me know how that goes, okay?”

“It was nice meeting you,” Es said to Mickey. “We should all have dinner one night this week, get to know each other better you know? I can cook.”

Svetlana laughed soft, “Oh, baby… no. No you can’t.”

Es reached over, swatting Svetlana on the shoulder, “Shut up!”

They were cute. Mickey grinned at the two, nodding, “Yeah, sounds good.”

 

* * *

 

The last time he was in an interrogation room, he was cuffed to the table. The cuffs had been way too fucking tight, the room had been way too fucking cold, and the lights had been way too fucking bright. This time, though, this time Mickey had a cigarette hanging from his lips, and his foot propped up on the table.

Mickey knew that they were probably all gathered behind that dark mirror, watching him. Just waiting, seeing if he looked nervous about something, trying to feel him out as best they could. It was fucking boring as shit in the interrogation room, but Mickey had a mission. Just like them. If he was nervous about anything, it was the fact that he was essentially signing up to be a fucking rat. Ain’t a fucking Milkovich alive that was a rat. He was turning on everything he knew, everything he believed in. So let them watch all they wanted to.

Finally, two people came in. Man and a woman, looking frustrated already.  Mickey looked down at his watch. Forty Five minutes had passed since he first sat down.

“I want Tony in here,” Mickey says to them. 

“Officer Markovich is out on patrol,” the woman says.

Mickey shakes his head, not feeling the conviction in her words. “You want me to rat my old man out, you get Tony in here. I don’t fucking know you two.”

The man and woman exchange a look before the woman sighs and leaves the room. The man introduces himself, “Mr. Milkovich, I’m Daniel Torres.”

Mickey nods at him, “Mickey’s fine.”

“You need anything? A drink?”

“You got beer?” Mickey grinned.

Torres sighed, “We have water.”

Mickey sucked his teeth, then took another drag of his cigarette, “Fine. Yeah, water’s fine.” He gets up, going for the door. Mickey calls after him, “Bottled water. In a glass though. Make sure you put a lot of fucking ice in it too, yeah?”

Torres glares at him before he shuts the door. It’s so easy to slip into being a little shit to cops. It was always one of Mickey’s favorite pastimes, after all. This time around though, he actually had the upper hand. He could get something they desperately needed. And Mickey was willing to fork it over, just so long as they were willing to play by his rules. He wasn’t fucking stupid after all. Like Svetlana said, stupid didn’t look good on him. 

He waits another ten minutes before both cops, along with Tony, come back into the room. Torres places a plastic cup in front of Mickey, muttering a short, “Here.” Mickey doesn’t thank him. There’s no ice.

“Sup Tony,” Mickey nods at him. He offers a cigarette; Tony shakes his head while he stands back in the corner of the room, leaning against the wall. 

When they come in this time, they have folders with them. The woman is first to speak again, must be the head of the investigation. “Mr. Milkovich—”

“Mickey,” he corrects. He hates being called Mr. Milkovich. Reminds him of every time he’s stood in front of a judge, every time he’s being questioned about a robbery or a drug deal.

“Mickey,” she nods. She’s got hair like Oprah and glasses perched on the end of her nose, looking at Mickey like she’s less than impressed with his existence. Actually, she looks a lot like his tenth grade English teacher. “You’ve met my partner Agent Torres. I’m Agent Sanders… we understand that you might have some information for us?”

“Wait,” Mickey frowns. “Agent? You all feds?”

Nothing in return but an eyebrow raise. 

Mickey shakes his head, “I don’t have shit for you.”

Sanders nods her head, opening up one of the folders, “Does the name John Lang mean anything to you?”

Again, Mickey shakes his head. Holy shit, they’re fucking feds. “Should it?”

Torres sighs, pulling pictures out of his folder, setting them in front of Mickey. Mickey’s never seen anything like them. Makes him sit up, makes him drop his cigarette into the little plastic ashtray, makes him pay the fuck attention. His confidence, his smugness, it dries up and floats away. 

They’re crime scene photos. Four of them. Four beds, three of them so painfully obvious of belonging to children. His stomach turns, seeing the large pools of blood in the middle of each bed. What the fuck did Terry do.

“John. Lang.” Torres’ voice is hard. “Cynthia Lang. Stacey Lang. Ashley Lang. Tiffany Lang.” he points to each picture as he says a name.

Mickey shakes his head, “The fuck did he do?” he asks.

“What does it look like?” Sanders throws back at him. “Tell me what you know.”

Mickey can’t look at the pictures anymore. He looks at Tony, who looks fucking sad as hell. “Tony, the fuck is going on?”

“Told you it was bad, Mickey.” Is all he gets from Tony.

Mickey looks at the two agents in front of him, no more bullshit, “I don’t know a fucking  _ thing _ about this. What happened?”

They look at him like he’s a liar. Torres questions him, “Why don’t you tell us?”

“I’ve been in fucking  _ prison  _ the last six years, man!” Mickey hisses at him. 

They go back and forth for hours. It’s exhausting. Mickey goes through a dozen more cigarettes, never touches his cup of water. He knew that whatever he said wouldn’t be believed right away. Never thought he’d be defending himself for not being involved in something like a whole fucking  _ family  _ being butchered like this. Never thought that he’d ever be looking at pictures of pink and yellow floral bedsheets with a harsh dark red stain in the middle. In the picture of the master bedroom, blood was fucking  _ everywhere _ , like there had been a struggle.

It was sick. It was fucking sick, and Mickey wished that he was more surprised than he was, seeing his father’s aftermath. Suddenly, the thought of ratting out his dad wasn’t so hard anymore. Terry was a lot of things, and Mickey knew that his dad killed before. But this? Little girls? This was… fuck, Mickey could barely process this.

Then they all leave for about twenty more minutes, and Mickey’s left with the pictures sitting on the table. He flips them over, not wanting to look at them anymore. The fuck did he do? The fuck did Terry  _ do _ ?

Only Sanders and Torres came back into the room, but Mickey didn’t care that time that Tony wasn’t with them. They sat back down across from him, and Sanders jabbed a finger against the back of one of the pictures.

“This case is over a year old, and I am  _ tired  _ of telling John and Cynthia’s family that I’ve run out of leads,” she said. “I worked with this man. I was friends with his wife. Their daughters played with my daughters. I am  _ tired _ , Mickey.”

“Worked with him?” Mickey asked.

“ _ Agent _ John Lang,” Sanders answered.

Terry cleaned up after himself real good this time. Mickey took a deep breath, feeling sick to his stomach, “Shit. Listen, I can’t tell you what I don’t fucking know.”

“We know,” Torres said quietly. “We had to make sure.”

And it was like Mickey could breathe again, because for half a second, even though he knew he had nothing to fucking do with this, he was starting to think that he was going to take the fall for this too.

“I don’t do this shit,” Mickey pointed at the turned over pictures. He’s already said this, but he feels the need to say it again. “You got my fucking record, I’m not… I don’t get involved with sick shit like this. Neither do my brothers. Neither does Sully. We don’t fucking do  _ this _ .”

Sanders nods, “We know. As far as we can tell, they’re all clear.”

“My sister too,” Mickey adds. Just because. “She’d never touch this.”

“She wasn’t even considered,” Torres says. “She hasn’t been in any trouble for some time —got herself out of that life, right?”

“Yeah,” he answers.

“Okay then,” Sanders says.

Mickey takes a deep breath, leaning heavily back in his chair, “Can you please tell me what the fuck happened?”

John Lang was investigating the club —specifically Terry. That’s what happened. John Lang got a little too close, got a little too on the nose when it came to the club’s ties with other organizations, and with Terry’s extracurricular activities. That’s what happened. Fourteen months ago, the Lang family disappeared. The family cars were found four days after their empty house was —burning under the L, all usable evidence completely destroyed. They --the bodies of John Lang, his wife, and daughters--  _ disappeared _ .

“How do you even know my dad had something to do with this?” Mickey asked.

Sanders opened her file, pulling out papers, “From nineteen seventy-seven, up to one year ago, any major offenses Terry Milkovich was involved in, also involved Yevgeny Petrov. They were partners.”

“Okay,” Mickey frowned. “Yeah?”

“The only physical evidence found at the scene of the crime were some hairs from Yevgeny Petrov,” Sanders said. “Now… there’s no way one person pulled this alone. And patterns of behavior tell me that Petrov was there with your father.”

Mickey nodded, “You don’t have anything tying him to this.”

“Correct,” Sanders said.

Mickey scratched the back of his neck, “You’re working off a hunch.”

“Come on, they were partners, Mickey,” Torres sighed. “You think Petrov did this alone? He was sick… dropped dead  _ two weeks _ after this went down!”

“I’m not saying you’re wrong,” Mickey admitted. “I’m saying you don’t got shit. You don’t even have…  _ bodies _ .”

Sanders and Torres exchange a look again. Sanders gathers all her pictures and papers, stuffing them back into her folders. “We need you to get a confession from your father.”

Mickey caught his tongue in the corner of his mouth, pulling out another cigarette, “You want me to wear a fucking wire.” He shook his head, popping the cigarette between his lips, lighting it up. He took a hard drag and blew out towards the ceiling, still shaking his head. “Jesus fucking christ.”

“It’s the only way we can bring him in,” Torres said. 

“Yeah, here’s the thing. I didn't know it was gonna be…  _ this _ ,” Mickey sat up, leaning his elbows on the table. “My old man isn’t gonna say shit about this to me. He doesn’t talk about the real fucked up shit he does. Ever. Even when everybody already knows, he doesn’t talk about it. He’s an idiot, but trust me, he’s not fucking  _ stupid _ .”

He thought it was some fucking massive drug ring Terry was involved in. He thought it would be something easy to get information about. Killing kids though… this is some other level, even for the likes of Terry Milkovich. Terry Milkovich, who was already a monster before the Lang family was victimized by him. 

Mickey had thought that in his own fucked up way, Terry had some kind of limit. He thought there’d be one thing at the very fucking least that would make him stop and decide _ no, not today _ . Evidently Mickey had given his father a little too much credit.

“We hear you’re his favorite,” Torres says.

Mickey actually laughs that time, “You were lied to, then. He fucking hates me. He trusts me, but he  _ hates  _ me.” 

Mickey was the epitome of the biggest fucking disappointment in Terry’s life. In Terry’s eyes, Mickey could’ve been the baddest motherfucker out of all his kids. He could’ve been the next in line, could’ve stepped right into his shoes. 

Except. For. One. Small. Problem. And that one small problem was a goddamn atom bomb to any love that Terry ever had for Mickey.

“But he  _ trusts  _ you,” Sanders drops all the fed bullshit right there. Mickey can see it in her eyes. She’s asking for real this time —from one human being to another. “As much as you say he hates you, he  _ trusts _ you.”

There’s a long pause between when Sanders stops talking, and when Mickey starts. In that long pause, Mickey feels like he’s standing at the bottom of a well, screaming his fucking lungs out for someone to throw him some rope, but not one comes. 

All his natural instincts are kicking in, telling him to get the fuck out of there, that he knows better. He’s hearing Svetlana’s voice screaming at him in Russian, picturing the looks on his brothers faces if they ever found out that one of their own had turned against blood like this. He feels sick. Feels lower than he ever felt in his entire fucking life. And that’s saying something, because Mickey’s felt really fucking low before. He’d been through the worst kinds of hell.

“He let you sit there and rot for six years, Mickey. And it could've been a much longer sentence,” Torres says quietly. “He set you up because the club was getting too hot, you know he did. Too many eyes looking at you all; someone had to alleviate the pressure. That was a bad deal… you’re too smart to get caught for what you did. Convicting the Iron Eagles’ president’s son? And not just any son,  _ you _ . Damn, that was the kind of alleviation that the club needed. You know… you  _ know _ he set you up.”

Mickey just looks at Torres. Chews on his bottom lip. Yeah. He knows. Probably knew from the moment the deal was set up, but never wanted to admit it to himself, that his dad would do that to him. He fucking knows.

“I know you’re struggling with this, but look what he did to you. What he took from you,” Torres continues. “Six years you’ll never get back. M’sure it doesn’t end there.”

Torres has no fucking  _ idea _ about what Terry has taken from Mickey.

Mickey knows what Torres is doing. Buttering him up, painting a nice picture to get Mickey all riled up against his father. The thing is though… the guy was right. But this was going against everything that Mickey was ever raised to believe. It’s going against every single fucking lesson he was ever taught. 

And that was why it had to be this way. That was why this was the only way. Plans had to change. The long con… shorten it up. Move those chess pieces, figure something else out. Stick with leaving like they said they would leave, like Svetlana wanted. But everything else… fucking drawing board. Back to square one. No other choice, not after what Mickey just learned. 

“I’m gonna need a few things, if I’m gonna do this. I don’t think I have to tell you what kind of risk this fucking is,” Mickey said, stubbing his cigarette out. “So you might wanna write this down.”

 

* * *

 

Sully’s ol’ lady opens the door after he knocks heavily and waits. Jasmine is covered in tattoos, with bright red lipstick and a ring through her eyebrow. She’s sweet though, smiling at him wide, ushering him into the sweet-smelling apartment. Jasmine always has some kind of fucking candle burning, or incense. There’s an underlying scent of weed that lingers, and Mickey can’t help but feel comforted by it. 

“Hey, stranger,” Jasmine says, slipping her arm through his, walking him deeper into the apartment. “Sully should be home any minute, he had to make a cigarette run... you want a beer or something?”

Mickey just nods, “Yeah, thanks.”

She breaks apart from him when they reach the living room, letting him get himself situated on the couch while she grabs a beer from the fridge. Mickey sits back on the plush furniture, sinking into the cushions. The place has changed a lot since he saw it last. There’s just… more. Jasmine is into spiritual shit (she’s one of those granola-eating masseuse hippies, under all those tattoos and piercings), and that mixed with Sully’s motorcycle shit, it makes for an interesting contrast. Just like them though, an interesting contrast. They’ve been together for fucking  _ ever _ , and Jasmine is probably the best treated Ol’ Lady in the history of the club.

“You okay, baby?” Jasmine asks when she comes back, sitting on the overstuffed armchair next to the couch. That’s her thing —calls everyone baby.

Mickey nods, takes a swig from his beer, “Yeah, just needed to talk to Sull.”

Jasmine nods back, but it doesn’t look like she believes him. Mickey’s too fucking fucked up over what he’s just done to twist his face into his steel mask. Knows it’s written all over himself. Probably carved right into his forehead, at this rate.  _ RAT _ .

Jasmine opens her mouth to say something, but the front door opens and closes quickly, “Jas, is Mick here? Saw his bike outside.”

“Yeah,” Mickey answers. “Drinking your beer.”

“Course you are,” Sully’s hand grabs Mickey’s shoulder as he walks past. He stops though, seeing the look on Mickey’s face, and it’s all he needs to look as Jasmine, “Give us a minute, babe?”

Jasmine nods, “Of course.” She kisses Sully, then disappears somewhere else —Mickey doesn’t look where she’s going. 

“S’going on?” Sully asks.

“I know what he did,” is all Mickey says. All he needs to say.

Sully hesitates before he sits down, “Ah fuck… m’I gonna need a drink for this?”

Mickey nods. Watches Sully disappear, hears him rustle around the kitchen for a second, then come back with a bottle of whiskey. Mickey finishes off his beer, watching Sully sit down next to him and pop open the bottle, taking a big drink. Mickey grabs for it when he’s done with his beer, taking his own drink before passing it back to Sully. It burns, but he fucking needs it.

“What’d he do?” Sully asks.

Mickey takes a deep breath, shakes his head. “There’s a fucking  _ lot _ I haven’t told you, Sull.”

“Like what?”

Mickey takes the whiskey from his friend again, getting another mouthful before he returns it. “I’m fucking leaving, first of all. Me and Lana, and Es —her girl. We’re leaving.”

Sully looks at him for a minute before he takes another drink of whiskey, then sets the bottle on the coffee table. He sits back, looking over at Mickey like he doesn’t recognize him. “The fuck you mean you’re  _ leaving _ ?”

He talks to Sully. He’s always been able to talk to Sully, always been able to leave the bullshit at the door. That’s how it’s always been with them. More than club-members, more than best friends. Brothers. Fuck, Sully was closer than any of Mickey’s actual blood brothers. Sully was safe. No judgement, ever, nothing. Lay it out on the table kind of guy. Shit, Sully knew Mickey was gay before anyone else.

“I mean I did a lot of thinking when I was locked up, and I can’t keep fucking drowning, Sull. Been drowning my whole fucking life. I’m tired. My dad took away...” he shook his head, unable to finish.

“I know,” Sully sighed. He ran a hand over his head and looked around his living room. “Maybe… maybe you don’t have to leave, maybe if Terry just gets locked up for a while—”

“Sully,” Mickey frowns.

“I know,” Sully sighs again, resigned. Terry was a major problem, but he wasn’t the  _ only _ problem. “I just… I know you love the club, man.”

“I do,” Mickey agreed. He reached for the bottle, uncapping it, taking a swig. “But what the fuck am I gonna do, play house for the rest of my life? I fucking love the club… but that club don’t love me. Not really.”

“Mick…” Sully shook his head. “That’s not true.”

“The fuck it’s not,” Mickey scoffed. “Come on man, don’t fucking act like if I stand up in the middle of the clubhouse and tell everyone I’m fucking… I’m the way that I am, that I’m gonna walk outta there in one piece. No one’s throwing me a fucking parade. Only thing they’ll throw is my ass in the ground.”

Sully didn’t say anything, because it was true. Both of them knew it. “Where you going?” he asked. And that’s all he needed to say, all Mickey needed to hear, to hear what his best friend was really saying.  _ I get it. I understand. I support you, whatever you need _ . And what a fucking relief.

Mickey gave a little shrug, a little involuntary grin, “Promised land.”

Immediately, Sully’s mouth cracked in a wide smile, knowing exactly what Mickey was talking about. “No shit?”

“No shit,” Mickey confirmed. “The girls went a couple months ago, I guess… they scoped out some places.”

Sully nodded, “Where you getting money for all that? Papers and shit? Can’t just up and go with your own name, they’ll find you quick.”

Mickey nodded, “Yeah, I’m working on all that. That’s the other thing I need to talk to you about.”

“That have to do with Terry?” Sully asked.

Mickey nodded. The words were right there on the tip of his tongue, but the shame he felt was clogging his throat. “I uh… did something real fucked up, Sull. Can’t go back from it, kind of fucked up.”

Sully’s hand covered his mouth as he looked at him for a second, “Mick, did you…”

Catching on to what his best friend was about to ask, Mickey couldn’t help but breathe a laugh, “I didn’t fucking kill him, Sully,  _ Jesus _ .”

His friend shook his head, letting out his own laugh, “Wouldn’t blame you if you did, man. Just saying I’d need a heads up if we’re gonna get rid of the body.”

That’s why Mickey loved Sully so fucking much. Not many people who could run with the Milkoviches like Sully could. He was always down, always able to keep up. Never scared to get his hands dirty, in the name of family.

“What he end up doing, anyways?” Sully asked.

Mickey took a deep breath, “Couple weeks before Petrov died, he and my dad, they… fuck, man.” he shook his head. Recounting the story was harder than he thought it would be. “They fucking butchered this whole family.  _ Cop  _ family —no, sorry… not even a cop family, a fucking FB-fucking-I family.”

“ _ What? _ ”

He nodded, “This fed, and his wife… they had three daughters, too. Shoulda seen the pictures, Sull. This was… we’ve seen some shit, but I’ve never seen shit like this. It was fucked up, man. They fucking  _ butchered  _ them. They can’t even find the bodies.”

“Why the fuck…” Sully shook his head, trying to understand. 

Sully is quiet for a long time, looking at Mickey with his mouth hanging open like a goddamn fish. Mickey lights a cigarette, still nodding his head, because he can’t really think of anything else to say or do. But Sully’s reaction is, weirdly, making him feel a little better about his whole deal with Sanders and Torres. Sully’s always got something to fucking say. But now? Yeah, not so much. Mickey feels a little less crazy, for thinking Terry had a limit to his savagery.

“Thing is… they don’t have any physical evidence linking Terry to it,” Mickey explained. “Just some of Petrov’s hair. But you know them, Terry was there. They couldn’t hold up a fucking gas station without each other.”

Almost distractedly, Sully nods, giving a weak, “Yeah.”

Now, Mickey can’t look at Sully. Now he’s looking at his hands, looking at the cigarette perched between his fingers, looking at the smudgy ink on his left pointer finger. That shaky-ass U. “Sully, I did something… real fucking bad. Gonna get myself killed if it gets out.” 

“What happened?”

He finally looks at his friend, feeling his eyes sting, feeling the world shift onto his shoulders, pushing him down into hell where he belonged. “I had to. Can’t be here anymore, and you shoulda seen what he fucking did, all that blood… and you know Terry, you know those little girls…” he couldn’t even finish, feeling sick. Mickey shook his head.

Sully’s hand was wrapping over his shoulder, squeezing, “Mick, it’s gonna be okay.”

Mickey shook his head again, hadn’t stopped. “Made a fucking deal with feds, Sull. To rat him out. Fucking  _ snitch _ . Gonna wire me up and everything… the fuck…”

Sully moved, sitting on the coffee table in front of Mickey. He grabbed the sides of Mickey’s face, forcing him to look at him, “You ain’t asking for my fucking permission here, but I’m giving it to you,” Sully said. “You’re, god help us all, you’re doing the right thing, Mickey. You fucking hear me? We all know Terry… know how he is. What he does. Don’t feel bad about that shit. You just make sure they hold up their end of the deal, okay? Don’t trust those fucking feds, they’re snakes, all of ‘em.”

Mickey wanted to ask Sully how it was so goddamn easy for him to understand. How it was so easy for him to not look at Mickey like he was a piece of shit rat. Mickey pulled his own guts from his yellow belly and threw them on the floor in front of Sully, showing him what he’d turned into, and Sully was just fucking Sully… and he just took that shit in stride. Instantly.

But the words forced their way out of his mouth anyways, “M’a fucking  _ rat _ , Sull.”

“He took  _ everything  _ from you, so you’re gonna take everything from him,” Sully said. His grip grew tighter on Mickey’s face, a frustrated edge to his voice. “He deserves  _ worse  _ than what you’re giving him. He deserves the fucking grave for what he’s put you through. Don’t feel bad over this shit. He deserves it. S’not being a rat, Mick, it’s  _ retaliation _ . Got it?”

Mickey doesn’t tell Sully about the original plan. Doesn’t tell him how he and Svetlana were going to pour Terry Milkovich down a drainpipe, by the time they were through with him. Doesn't tell him any of that. Instead, he lets his friend pull him up to stand, lets his friend wrap tight arms around his shoulders, in a brief but comforting hug. They don’t really do this a lot, but Sully is kind of affectionate, and right now Mickey will take all the reassurance he can scrounge up at this point.

“Always in your corner, Mickey,” Sully tells him. “You’re my fucking brother.”

Mickey nods, wiping at his stinging eyes when Sully lets him go. “Yeah, yeah sorry.”

Sully lets him go finally, scruffing up the top of Mickey’s hair, “The fuck you sorry for?”

Mickey bats Sully’s hand away, smirking despite himself, “I dunno,” he admits. Pauses, sits back down on the couch, “Just… wanted you to know everything before I went through with it. Before everyone starts talking about it. Not gonna be able to show my face around here again.”

Sully nodded, his eyes looking a little red around the rim like he was trying to hold in tears or some shit. Mickey’s surprisingly never seen the man cry, it’s kind of surreal. “When’s this all going down?”

“Told them I gotta get everything together to leave first,” Mickey said. “Gotta be on my timeline; got a plan with Lana. After we get some cash together —a lot of cash. Much as I can, you know? And the feds working the case, they got pull. Said they’d work with me.”

“Yeah?”

Mickey nodded, “Mmhm. Since it was a fucking FBI agents family, they’re willing to cough up shit we need… get us all legit new ID’s and shit. Even got them to agree to leave me the fuck alone while we try to scrape together as much cash as we can.”

Sully’s eyebrows rose high as he grabbed for the bottle of whiskey again, “Get that in writing, Mick.”

“No shit,” Mickey nodded, taking the bottle when it was offered. “Got it covered. They want Terry  _ that  _ fucking bad.”

“You said they don’t know where the bodies are?” Sully asked.

Again, Mickey nodded, taking a swig from the bottle. As soon as Torres and Sanders admitted that, Mickey knew  _ exactly  _ where that family was, “And I’m not fucking telling them. Ain’t no way Terry’s gonna tell either.” He knew it was fucked up, knew that family deserved better, but he couldn’t just tell them without taking everyone else down too... himself included.

“Yeah,” Sully breathed. “What a fucking shitshow.”

Mickey took a deep breath, still feeling like shit about all of it, but at least someone else he trusted knew about it, and even though he still hated himself for turning into a rat, at least Sully didn’t hate him. At least when Sully heard it from everyone else, and saw that Mickey was gone for good, he’d know the truth. He’d know, and Mickey would know that Sully understood. 

“You need any cash, I got some,” Sully said.

Mickey waved his hand at him, “Oh fuck off, don’t want your money, man. Save it to for a ring to put on that ol’ lady of yours. Putting up with your sorry ass, it’s the fucking least you can do.”

Sully reached a foot over and knocked it into Mickey’s knee, “Fucker.”

Mickey laughed, finally, taking another drink from the bottle. It was starting to settle into his blood, making him all warm. “We good?”

“We’re always good, Mick,” Sully nodded. “Fuck you if you don’t know that.”

Mickey grinned, “A’ight, cool.” He looked down at his watch, feeling a pull in his gut. “Gotta go in a little bit.”

“Where you headed off to?” Sully asked, a little knowing edge to his voice. 

Mickey just flipped him off in response. Sully laughed.

Before he had the chance to get up from the couch, Sully grabbed his elbow, a more serious look on his face. Troubled, almost. Mickey got comfortable again, raising a brow at his friend in a silent question.

“Do they know why?” Sully finally asked. “Like, why the fuck they killed that family?”

“Dude was working on some case on the club,” Mickey shrugged. “But mostly looking into my dad I guess. I dunno what about, they didn’t tell me. Seemed like something serious, though.”

After a minute, Sully closed his eyes, “Oh shit…” he ran a hand over his light hair, then down his face. “Jesus, fuck, I’m gonna be sick.”

“What happened?” Mickey asked. It was obvious something clicked for Sully right then. “The fuck he do?”

“There were some,” Sully stopped talking, still shaking his head. “There were some  _ accusations  _ flying around, about a year ago. About Terry.”

“What kind of fucking accusations?” Mickey asked; his shoulders got tight, he could already feel fucking knots forming into the muscles of his back. He almost didn’t want to know.

By the look on Sully’s face, Mickey  _ knew  _ that he really didn’t want to know. “You know,” was all that Sully gave him. 

“Fuck,” Mickey felt sour in his mouth. 

He couldn’t think about it, didn’t want to think about it. Terry Milkovich was a fucking monster, who did monstrous things. But that thing. That thing no one was brave enough to do anything about, for fear of a bullet in the temple… he couldn’t go there. Couldn’t think of John Lang’s…

“Mickey,” Sully tightened his hold on his shoulder, grabbing his attention. “You gotta do this. You gotta do whatever the fuck you have to do to get him locked up for good.  _ Forever _ . He belongs in a cage.”

Mickey could only nod, “I know.” He swore under his breath, rubbing at his bottom lip. “Why the fuck didn’t any of us ever…” it was a question he’d already answered himself, but it came out anyways. Call it guilt.

“You remember what happened to Junior,” Sully said. 

Terry beat him to death. He nodded, wincing at the memory, “Yeah, I remember.” 

Right in front of the whole club. Mickey had been sixteen at the time, not even a member yet, just a stupid kid following his dad around for any ounce of approval he could scrape up off the ground.

And Junior… this old-timer, good guy except for the pill habit… Junior confronted Terry about it. Threatened to turn him in to the cops, threatened to put a bullet in his brain. And Terry fucking lost it. In front of everyone, didn’t care that he killed a fucking member in front of the entire club. Killed him with his bare fucking hands. 

Seeing your dad kill a guy by beating him to death will do some serious things to your bravery. Fucks you up. Fucked Mickey up. Shit, fucked up the whole club —and these weren’t a bunch of pussies. These were hardened men, these were lifetime career criminals. They were brutal, in their own right. 

And Petrov, Svetlana’s father. Petrov just fucking sat there, gun drawn, lazily pointing it anyone who came too close. That’s who Terry and Petrov were, in a nutshell. Those were the men that raised Mickey and Svetlana. That’s who they came from.

“Don’t hesitate,” Sully said to Mickey. “Do what you gotta do.”

Mickey nodded, not knowing what or how to feel right now. Disgust ran through his veins, and anger sat on his shoulders. “I fucking hate him,” he said. “Hate that he’s my blood.”

“I know,” Sully sighed.

Mickey looked down at his watch, then grabbed the whiskey bottle off of the coffee table. He could use another drink or five, before heading out.

 

* * *

 

He’s drunk by the time he gets to Ryan’s place. Not too drunk to make a decision, but drunk enough to round out the edges. He almost tripped when he hopped off the L (Sully didn’t let him take his bike since he wasn’t steady enough; the prick). 

Fuck, even after learned all he did, even after knowing everything he knew, Mickey still couldn’t believe what he'd done earlier. Talking to feds. Making deals. Planning to rat out his dad. Mickey knew that Terry had it coming, he knew that this was for the best, knew that he was “doing the right thing”. But fuck, if it didn’t make him hate the fuck out of himself. Hate himself more than he thought he could, that is. 

And he gets even more pissed because Terry fucking  _ deserves  _ it, after everything he’s put not only Mickey, but everybody else through. The Lang family. Those girls… he can’t. Can’t fucking go there. He gets pissed because he shouldn’t feel bad. He  _ shouldn’t _ . But he does. And that makes him fucking sick. Mickey comes from bad blood, he knows this, he hates who he comes from, hates that that’s part of what makes him. Hates it so fucking much. And yet… there’s still that dumbass starving child curled up in his gut, who only wants to see a flash of approval, that only wants to see a fucking glimmer of pride in Terry’s eyes.

It’s so fucked. Mickey knows how fucked up it is. He does. Hates himself for needing that validation from that fucking monster. After all these years, after everything Terry’s put him through, that starving child just won’t  _ die _ . 

Mickey miraculously remembers where Ryan’s place is, stalking heavily up the stairs, knocking even heavier on the front door. He’s greeted with a strong odor of weed when Ryan opens the door. The guy is a good head taller than Mickey, like he remembered. Filled out over the years though —went from on the skinny side to fit, built up some muscle, put some meat on his bones. Fuck, he looked pretty good, Mickey had to admit. Could probably throw Mickey around a little now. Make all the bullshit go away for just a night. Maybe. 

Probably not, but it’s nice to hope for best sometimes... even though Mickey knows that hoping for the best does just as good as putting a gun in his mouth.

“Been a while,” Ryan moved out of the way, letting Mickey walk past him. “Look good.”

Mickey grunted, taking a look around the dimly lit living room. He can’t remember what it used to look like, but he assumes it’s changed. There’s bongs and blunts everywhere, a couple fat lines of coke in the middle of the glass table. Ryan has his music playing real low, like he always had back in the day.

He gestures to the coke, looking back at Ryan, silently asking. Ryan nods at him. Mickey doesn’t want to feel like shit anymore. Doesn’t want to think about what he did, what Terry did, what any fucking body did, for that matter. He just wants it to go  _ away _ .

He sits heavily down on the couch; Ryan sits next to him, hands him a rolled up dollar bill. Mickey doesn’t even think, just leans forward and rails one of the lines, dropping the paper tube on the glass table before he leans back against the couch, looking up at the ceiling. He swallows down the drip. Sour. While Ryan is hunched over the table for his own taste, Mickey sniffs hard through his nose, tasting more of the drip in the back of his throat.

And then Mickey feels it, after it settles in and spreads out inside him; he lets it wash over him while a hand slides over his thigh. Then breath is on the side of his neck, and he moves away, blindly pushing at Ryan’s chest, “Fucking kiss me, I’ll shove your dick down your throat.”

Ryan laughs, and Mickey opens his eyes, getting a look at the guy while he moves. “Some things don’t change, I see.”

Mickey doesn’t respond right away, watching the other man move to the floor, kneeling in front of him. His arm is so heavy when he reaches for Ryan’s hair, grabbing on, just gripping him for a minute. Texture is all wrong under his fingers. Wrong color. Wrong length. Wrong everything, but it doesn’t fucking matter, because it’s been  _ so _ long since he’s been fucked, and Mickey just wants to get his, to  _ really  _ get his, for just one night. Without the little blue pills, without pretending. He  _ needs _ this.

“Forgot how hot you were,” Ryan grins up at him. “ _ Jesus _ .”

“Shut the fuck up,” Mickey finally murmurs, grip tugging tightly.

Ryan sighs from Mickey pulling at his hair. Mickey lets him go, watching the other man as he start to pluck at his belt; Mickey feels his body start to wake up, not just from the coke. He smiles, can’t help but smile. Smiles and lifts his hips to help the other man tug his pants down. Mickey’s head lolls back again, resting against the back of the couch. 

He needs this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Mickey.
> 
> Thank you for all of the love this has been getting, and of course thank you for the patience!


	4. Chapter 4

There’s a crack on his ceiling, above his bed. It’s stark against the white paint. Kind of looks like the scribbles Liam would scratch onto pieces of paper with a pencil when he first learned how to. All jagged and irregular, branching off here and there. He’d talked to his landlord about it before, but it never got looked at. It was probably nothing. Just an old ceiling in an old building.

There’s a crack in his ceiling, and a body next to him. Ian looks over at Andrew’s sleeping form, taking a deep breath as he looks back up at the ceiling. He can’t sleep. Hasn’t been sleeping that well for quite a few days now. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees him. Mickey. 

Andrew’s moving now, stretching and waking up. He’s got sun lightened hair in a smart, distinctly North Side cut, and he wears a thin chain around his neck that makes Ian sigh. Andrew’s chain is… Ian bites his lip, watching the man in question sit up and stretch again. His chain is weak; flimsy metal that is simply for the sole purpose of making people think there’s a hint of an edge to an otherwise edgeless person. He can't help but miss a  _ different _ chain; gold rope and sturdy, didn't make Ian nervous to tug on it. 

Christ. Barely over seventy-two hours after learning that Mickey is back out in the world, and Ian’s already picking apart the man in his bed. That was inevitable, he knew. Ian hated that he did that shit, but it was par for the course. An old habit that crept in even  _ before _ him and Mickey even got together the first go around. No one, fucking  _ no one _ , could ever measure up. 

Maybe Ian had put Mickey up on a pedestal. But he’d never found that same…  _ thing _ that he’d felt with Mickey. This thing he couldn’t define, that was deeper than sex and attraction, deeper than friendship. Ian didn’t know what the fuck it was. It was something that had been planted between the two of them in elementary school, and had grown, and kept growing their entire lives. 

And even though Terry had set a fucking fire to it, the ashes were still there. The roots. The space that it had occupied. All still there.  _ That _ was still there, something that even Terry motherfucking Milkovich couldn’t rip away from Ian. He took Mickey away, but at least he couldn’t take that.

“Can’t sleep?” Andrew asks.

Ian shrugs, “Trying. Not happening.”

Andrew’s sliding his hand over Ian’s chest, just touching him. Ian sighs, resting his hand on top of the other man’s when it stops moving, then a light press of lips to his shoulder as Andrew scoots closer to him.

“I know you don’t like to talk about stuff, but…” Andrew leaves his words hanging. He let the offer sit out in the open like that, waiting for Ian to grab on if he wished.

“I just…” Ian’s mouth is moving before he can even make a decision to start talking. “I found out my ex just got out of prison a couple weeks ago.”

Andrew tenses up a little, and Ian wants to laugh until his lungs pop. But he doesn’t. “Prison?”

“Yeah,” Ian sighs. Andrew knows that Ian’s originally from South Side, but that’s about it. Like Andrew had said before… Ian doesn’t really like to talk about shit. 

“Wow,” Andrew breathes. Dude was born in the suburbs, as far as Ian could tell. He didn’t know for sure, but it was a safe assumption. A very safe assumption. 

Ian nods, “Mmhm.” He can feel the other man wanting to ask him a dozen more questions, and he knows that he put himself in this position. Can’t just throw that information out and not expect someone to follow up with a barrage of  _ why, what, when _ and  _ how _ .

Andrew asks him, “Are you okay?”

Ian can’t stop the laugh that time, a short burst from his chest. He shakes his head, “Dunno.”

“Are you like… scared of him or something? Is he dangerous?”

“No,” Ian tells him. He grips Andrew’s hand a little tighter for a second before letting it go, reaching for his watch on the nightstand. It’s half past midnight. Ian sighs, tossing his watch back on the nightstand, before looking at Andrew again. He doesn’t want to talk anymore, doesn’t want to be around anyone right now. “You heading out?”

Andrew looks a little surprised at the question, but recovers quickly. They’re not  _ dating _ , after all. No boyfriend labels, no commitments. The other man nods, “Yeah, just didn’t know if you wanted to… you know.”

Can’t even say it. Ian internally scolds himself again for doing it again —comparing. It’s not news to Ian that Andrew is a little closed off to speaking so openly about sex, but Ian sighs anyways, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from calling him out on it and embarrassing him. Andrew was a nice guy, there was no need to be a jackass.

He glosses over the short pause between them, flashing Andrew an easy grin, “Wore me out.”

Andrew gets a little pink in the cheeks, chuckles as he kisses Ian’s shoulder one last time. He slips out of bed, and Ian lets his eyes wander over his toned back, the curve of his ass. Andrew’s a good looking guy; could fuck good, could get Ian to come fairly quick with his mouth… on paper, there was nothing wrong with him. He was normal. Painfully normal.

Andrew represents everything that “they” say you should want. A nice, law-abiding guy with a nine-to-five, a good relationship with his parents, and a fucking Honda.  _ Safe _ qualities. In fact, as far as Ian could tell, there was nothing “wrong” with Andrew. But because of that fact that Andrew was so “normal” and had never been through half the shit that Ian had… there could never be anything there that would sustain itself. He and Andrew could only have the physical. Ian was Andrew’s South Side bad boy hook-up, and Andrew was Ian’s North Side good boy who  _ really _ liked a cock up his ass. And shit like that only lasted in fiction. There was no commonality. 

Ian watches him get dressed from where he’s propped up in bed, and Andrew glances back at him a couple times, grinning, catching Ian. “You’re staring,” the blonde notes.

He nods, “Yeah.”

Andrew snorts a laugh, pulling his t-shirt on before coming around to Ian’s side of the bed, bending down. They kiss, and it’s nice enough. Ian throws him a little noise; doesn’t know if it’s genuine or not, but he suspects not because even though Andrew’s got a nice mouth, his lips are thinner than what Ian’s really craving right now. The kiss is borderline superficial. Not deep, not stealing the breath from him, not giving him a tightness or flip in his gut. 

But it’s nice. Andrew is nice. All of this is… nice. Ian’s doing it again. He bites the inside of his lip, screaming at himself. He’s got to  _ stop _ fucking doing that.

“Call me this weekend,” Andrew tells him. Ian nods again, watching the blonde walk out of his room, hearing his front door open and shut a moment later.

And then he’s there, alone, sitting in bed. Ian sighs, looking back up at the ceiling. And it’s quiet; it’s so fucking quiet that Ian vaguely hears his kitchen faucet dripping into a glass. There isn’t even noises outside, not really. A car goes by. Suddenly he misses that deep South Side ambience. It rarely happens, that he misses the honking cars and the yelling and the distant pops of gunfire, but right this moment… fuck, he misses it. 

It’s not the sounds of South Side he misses. He knows. He knows his nostalgia is misplaced. Overcompensating for what he really wants to hear. But it hurts too fucking much; Ian’s sure that if he heard Mickey’s voice right now, he’d… 

He looks at his watch again. Quarter to one. Sets the watch back down on the nightstand. Sighs heavy and long. “Don’t,” he tells himself. He stays.

 

* * *

 

Lip’s been staring at him all through lunch, and Ian’s pulling any ounce of patience he might have stored away inside of himself, so he doesn’t snap at him. Instead, Ian takes a drink of his water,his other hand itching badly to reach for Lip’s cigarettes that he left on the table. There’s so much on Ian’s mind, so much crawling to the surface, wanting to sill out. So right now the thought of ditching his attempt to quit smoking is looking less and less appealing.

The sun is out, the birds are fucking chirping, and a couple tables away there’s a little girl no more than five standing on her chair laughing hysterically while her poor mother desperately tries to get her to sit back down to finish eating her lunch. 

“What?” Ian asks, finally.

His brother drops the hesitant act. He wasn’t ever really one to hesitate though, Ian doesn’t know why he’d start now. “You know that Mickey’s out of prison, don’t you?”

Ian nods, “Yeah.”

Lip looks at him expectantly, waiting for Ian to keep going. When he doesn’t give Lip what he’s looking for, Lip sighs heavy, leaning back in his chair, “Have you seen him?”

“No,” Ian tells him. 

It feels easier to talk about this, than it did with Mandy. Probably because he’s had a few days to process it, his first initial reaction had been so overwhelmed with memories and hurt. A few days, it’s dulled a little. Still there, of course. But Ian’s able to swallow it down now. He’s able to actually fucking communicate.

“Do you  _ want _ to see him?”

Ian pauses. His insides scream  _ yes _ . His head screams  _ yes _ . Everything screams  _ yes _ . But he shrugs his shoulders, shaking his head, “Dunno.”

Lip’s visibly annoyed already. Mouth pressed in a hard line, he reaches for his pack of cigarettes, lighting one up, blowing out a harsh cloud. “Why would you want to see him again after what he fucking did to you?”

“I didn’t say I wanted to see him—”

“Oh fuck off,” Lip scoffs, eyes rolling. That was the problem with having a brother that knows you almost better than you know yourself. Lying was fucking useless. “Motherfucker beat the shit outta you. Told you from the beginning you can’t trust those fucking people.”

He’s got that disgust in the back of his throat, the judgement on the tip of his tongue while he spits the words out. Even before Lip got out of South Side and settled down, made himself a family, he was like that. Gallagher’s didn’t have a lot of room to judge people, but if Lip found a way, he’d wedge himself into that little sliver of space, claim it as his home.

Ian’s hackles don’t shoot up immediately, but they shudder to life, attention fully grabbed. And old instinct that he hasn’t had to call on in what seems like forever. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know enough,” Lip says. “Don’t need to know more than watching my little brother come home looking like he went ten fucking rounds. Fuck him. You don’t need that shit again, Ian. You’re doing good. Mickey’s a fucking...”

“A what?” Ian sits up a little straighter, brows arching up. “He’s a what?”

Lip shakes his head at Ian, and Ian feels this odd sense of deja vu. It’s a conversation they’d had before, but not in a long time, not since Mickey first got locked up. Because Lip didn’t know Mickey like Ian knew Mickey. He didn’t understand anything about him, just assumed, just judged from his genius ivory tower. He’d probably been waiting for this for years, saving up his comments for the perfect moment. Hell, Lip probably missed these conversations. 

“He’s a fucking  _ loser _ , Ian,” Lip said. “Just got out of prison, still running around with that stupid fucking vest—”

“S’called a  _ cut _ ,” Ian bit out. “Not just some  _ vest _ , you know that.”

Lip threw his hands up in mock surrender, “Excuse the fuck outta me for not remembering shit about those fucking Neo-Nazis.”

Ian shakes his head, “It's not… they're not…”

After he trails off his words, Lip looks at him blankly. It was hard to defend, Ian had to admit. The club wasn't necessarily a white supremacist group, not on paper. But everyone knew. Hard truth. Hard reality. Even harder to defend. It's what Mickey was raised in, and even though Ian knew Mickey wasn't  _ nearly _ as hardcore about that shit as Terry was… again, hard truth. 

“You don’t know anything about him,” Ian said instead. “And you don’t know anything about what happened. So back off.”

His brother just shook his head at him, taking a drag from his cigarette, “You’re acting like you’re still with him.  _ Defending _ him. Ian Gallagher standing by his fucking man. Even when he beats the hell outta you. And I know it wasn’t the  _ first _ fucking time he put his hands on you, right before he and that little bitch stabbed you in the back.”

Ian felt his stomach drop out, and heat shoot up his spine, “Fuck you.” Lip didn't know anything, and to be fair that was because Ian didn't tell him, but still he was so fucking  _ wrong _ about everything. So wrong about Mickey. 

Lip is still shaking his head. “You don’t deserve that, Ian.”

“You don’t  _ know _ ,” Ian said.

“Explain it to me,” Lip challenged, sitting up, elbows on the table. “You tell me about  _ everything _ but this. You were together for four fucking years, best friends since first grade... and he  _ marries _ Lana? And you wonder why the fuck I’m not all on board about you still being hooked on that guy? He fucking  _ hurt _ you. Bad. Both of them. They fucked you over. For what? So Mickey could be a good little straight son for Terry —why'd it have to be  _ her _ ? He's toxic, Ian. Fucking poison.”

Ian swallows hard, looking down at his half-finished sandwich. The picked at salad. He hasn’t talked about this in… ever, hasn’t ever talked about it. He shoved it to the bottom of his pile of bad things he doesn’t think or talk about, and left it there to rot. 

“No he's not,” Ian murmurs. “You're so  _ wrong _ about this.”

“Ian,” Lip’s voice is softer this time, drawing his attention. When Ian looks at him again, Lip looks sad and borderline helpless. “Come on.”

There’s this flash of Mickey bleeding as he's slumped on the couch; of shaking, crying Svetlana; of the barrel of a gun inches away from his face. Ian pushes it down, but all he can hear is Svetlana’s shrill pleas, her crying. It’s like his heart is breaking all over again. Everything crashed to pieces around him; everything had been  _ so _ out of his hands. Feeling that  _ helpless _ , that  _ useless… _ it still fucked him up. 

The little girl a couple tables over screams at her mother, and Ian feels himself close up again, “I can’t talk about this here,” he tells Lip. He looks down at his watch. “I gotta go back to work.”

“ _ Ian _ ,” Lip’s voice is hard yet desperate. 

Ian doesn't say anything. He can't. It feels like his throats is clogged with dirt and blood. He's got an extra ten minutes he can hang out with his brother, but this isn't the time or place to talk about this shit. He can't. Not now. 

Finally he looks at his brother, puts down ten bucks for his half of lunch, “Come to my place tonight, okay?”

There's a slight shock on Lip’s face as he raises to stand too, nodding his head, “Yeah, sure. We'll talk?”

“Yeah,” Ian sighs. 

He doesn't  _ want _ to, not at all, but he knows it's what's best. For Mickey's sake… he has to. The fact that Lip thinks that Mickey putting his hands on Ian like that was something that happened in their relationship. Fuck, it made him sick. That wasn't fair. How could Ian blame his brother for thinking the worse, when Ian never opened his fucking mouth to explain.

It was  _ his _ fault that his family looked at Mickey like he was a piece of shit.  _ His _ fault that they formed these assumptions that Mickey beat on him, that he didn’t treat him right. All on him. And he knew there was no  _ reason _ to make it right, now. There was no  _ reason _ for him to set them straight and defend his ex-boyfriend. Wasn’t like they could ever be together again, wasn’t like they could go back to how it was before. Ian felt like he owed it to Mickey though. After keeping his mouth sewn up tight for six years, letting his family think the worst… yeah, he owed that to Mickey.

 

* * *

 

“You’re distracted,” Shea had pulled Ian aside before he left work. She had a serious, pointed look, full lips set in a frown. “What’s going on?”

He swallows hard.  _ Well someone who I hate calling my ex-boyfriend, but who is my ex-boyfriend just got out of prison after six years, and all these memories and feelings have been stabbing me over and over again, and I keep dreaming about him, and holding myself back from driving around South Side until I run into him, because I’m still fucking in love with him and I don’t know how to stop. _

“Didn’t sleep last night,” Ian answers. “Sorry. I’ll be better tomorrow.”

Shea doesn’t look convinced, arching a brow at him, “You sure?”

Ian nods; doesn’t really know if he even believes himself, “Yeah.”

“Okay,” her words and tone don’t add up still, but Ian doesn’t try to convince her further. 

He replays that conversation over and over while he drives home. Even when he decides to stop in the restaurant he lives above before going up to his apartment, he can’t help but think about it. It’s frustrating. This whole  _ thing _ is frustrating. It’s affecting his fucking work now, and that’s not okay. He can’t afford to fuck up his job. Lives literally depend on it.

His nerves are all over the place. Lip’s going to be coming by, and Ian’s going to have to talk about shit that he doesn’t want to talk about. But he keeps reminding himself that it’s for Mickey. Can’t have his family forever thinking that Mickey was some monster of a boyfriend. Fuck, he should have said something sooner.  Should have sat down with Lip years ago and laid it out, so he'd understand. 

Lip knew how brutal Terry Milkovich could be, but he didn’t know everything. Didn’t know how  _ sick _ he could be. And Svetlana’s father… Christ. Ian didn’t know who was worse, Terry or Petrov. Ian remembered when he heard that Petrov finally kicked the bucket. There was a sick pull of satisfaction from the news, that Ian knew was something he should have been ashamed of. But after everything that went down… no. Petrov deserved that shit. Deserved to die. Ian only hoped that Terry would be next, if only for his kids’ sake.

After Ian has eaten dinner, and finished off a couple beers, Lip’s knocking on his front door. Their greeting is quiet, and Ian leads the way to his kitchen table, grateful for seeing the six pack that Lip brought with him. He knows he’s been drinking a lot more lately. Not a scary amount, but this is just what Ian fucking does when he’s trying to sort shit out in his head. Needs those poking edges softened up a little, so he can relax.

Besides, he’s a Gallagher, they’re all a bit heavy-handed with the booze. Genetic.

“How’s Chrissy?” Ian asks.

Lip nods, “She’s good. Busy grading papers and shit. End of the year tests.”

Ian manages a half grin. Lip’s wife teaches high school Science. Chemistry, actually. She’s smart as fuck, just like Lip is; they’re always going back and forth on all these complicated subjects, debating ideas and whatnot. If it weren’t so painfully hard to understand, Ian would think it’s cute. 

It was nice seeing Lip finally settled though. Ian didn’t ever think his big brother would, didn’t ever think he’d get out of his own way and just let himself be the fucking master of the universe, like Kev always says.

And of course, they have a little one. Just two years old, little Sarah. She’s got Lip’s curls and Chrissy’s dimpled smile. Sarah’s a little talker too, putting together her short sentences with her little voice. She likes wearing a Superman cape and flowered rainboots. In short, she’s fucking adorable and so incredibly loved by everyone in the family.

“Sarah?” Ian asks.

Lip smiles; can’t help it whenever his daughter is brought up. Sarah’s softened him, and gave him a reason to get his shit together. Chrissy accidentally getting knocked up was probably the best thing to happen to Lip, as far as Ian was concerned. 

They’d already been serious, been talking about the future, but hadn’t planned on a baby, not then. But then it happened, and plans get adjusted, and Ian thinks that Lip seeing Chrissy pregnant, being there when she gave birth, holding baby Sarah for the first time… there was his lightbulb moment. 

“She’s good. Little shit,” Lip answers. “Keeps getting into Chrissy’s makeup.”

Ian laughs, watching Lip light up a cigarette, “Gonna be a handful.”

“Karma,” Lip notes, nodding.

They bullshit for a little longer; it’s a welcome break from everything that’s been on Ian’s mind recently. Talking about Lip’s family, talking about Lip’s work that Ian still doesn’t understand, he just knows it’s got to do with all that robotics shit, and his brother is being paid decent, able to give his family a nice house with a nice yard. And that’s all that matters, really. Lip getting away from South Side. It was always too toxic for Lip, especially with Frank around, especially with Monica flitting in and out of their lives. 

Lip was an asshole, and he built his walls, but under his walls was a shattered heart. But then Lip held baby Sarah for that first time, and he fucking cried, and Ian remembers that day like it was  _ hours _ ago, seeing his big brother’s heart mend just a little bit. That baby saved Lip’s future, his life, his soul. Ian knows it. He hopes that Sarah will know that when she’s older, that she’ll know how much her father fucking loves her, that she’ll know just how important she is to Lip.

The bullshit doesn’t last as long as Ian would like it to, though. Eventually Lip rounds the conversation back to why he was there in the first place. Brows expectant as he’s dragging from his cigarette. 

Ian doesn’t know how to tell him. Doesn’t know where to start. But that’s a lie. He knows. Just… doesn’t want to remember. Doesn’t want to go through all that detail he’s packed down for so long.

“Terry fucking caught us,” Ian manages to spit out. There’s this flash of movement, in his memory. Of yelling. Of a fist colliding with his face.

There’s this long pause, where Lip’s looking at Ian like Ian just admitted to a murder, before he asks, “What do you mean caught you?”

“You know,” Ian sighs. “Caught us  _ together… _ in Terry’s house.”

Lip drops his cigarette into his beer bottle, sitting up to put his elbows on the table, his steepled hands covering his nose and mouth as he stares at Ian. It’s tense, in the kitchen. Quiet. Ian can’t remember when Lip’s been this fucking quiet. Can’t tell if his brother is waiting for him to keep talking, or trying to process —or both.

“Beat the shit outta both of us,” Ian feels his eyes sting. There’d been blood pouring from his nose, and Terry had knocked him around pretty good. Mickey tried to keep Terry off of him, tried to redirect Terry onto himself, but the man just kept at it. “Mickey tried to… he tried to get him off me, but he just kept hitting me. Fucking screaming this  _ awful _ shit. Then he turned around and pistol-whipped Mickey after he beat on him too.”

He’d never forget that sound. The slam of the butt of the gun against Mickey’s head. The way Mickey fell back onto the couch, dazed. “Did it twice,” Ian whispered. “Hit him so fucking hard. Thought he'd killed him.”

“That was that first time you came home all busted up,” Lip said, his voice soft. “Thought Mickey did that to you… I thought…”

Ian shook his head, “It was Terry.”

“Jesus Christ,” Lip scrubs his fingers over his face. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

It takes a few more minutes for Ian to keep going. He’s wiping at his eyes, and sniffing, nodding his head in affirmation when Lip reaches over to grab and squeeze his shoulder. “Terry called Petrov while he held a gun on both of us. Guess he didn’t know what the fuck to do.”

“Svetlana’s dad?”

Ian nodded. He couldn’t hold it in anymore, letting out an ugly sob, his hands running over his hair, grabbing at it. He closed his eyes up tight, squeezed them as hard as he could, because he could hear Terry’s fucking voice in the back of his head. Could hear that smug grin on his face as one monster called another for help. Lip had scooted his chair over closer, holding onto his shoulder still, getting Ian through it.

“What happened?” Lip asked.

Ian wiped at his face, leaning back in his chair. He remembered the look on Svetlana’s face when her father dragged her into the house, how when she saw the two of them bleeding and broken in the living room. She instantly started sobbing because they were her boys, and as much as she and Mickey went back and forth, giving each other hell… they were  _ her _ boys and she loved them fiercely. And they loved her, even though Mickey wouldn't admit it, he loved her too. 

Mickey closed his eyes. And Ian felt his heart sink. Felt all the air leave his lungs. Because they knew. They all knew what was about to happen.

“It was…” Ian shook his head, pushing the memory away. He couldn’t see that, not now. “Terry and Petrov made… they forced them. Because Mickey’s gay. And so is… so is she,” Ian tried so hard to stop the tears. Fuck, he’d felt so helpless. The two people beyond his blood that meant the whole fucking world to him. He couldn’t do anything to stop it. 

“No,” Lip whispered, barely got it out.

Ian nodded, “Put a gun on us. Made me watch. They watched too like it was some  _ show _ for them or some shit. It was so fucking wrong, Lip. It was fucking  _ sick _ .”

He couldn’t look at Svetlana after that. Feeling this immense weight of guilt because he couldn’t save her —couldn’t save  _ them _ , he couldn’t do anything but sit there and watch. Couldn’t even close his eyes because Terry would push the gun into his temple if he did. He failed both of them so fucking terribly. 

Something in him broke that day, and Ian felt even more guilt because he wasn’t even the one who they forced to do that. He just had to sit there. But something snapped, something went wrong, and the thought of facing Svetlana after that… he couldn’t bring himself to. It was his fault, all of it. He got too comfortable, convinced Mickey to be comfortable with him, and Svetlana got swallowed up in the bomb that went off because of it. She didn’t even fucking do anything. She was dragged there and stripped down, and…

Ian took a deep breath, shaking his head, shaking away that image. “They broke us,” he breathed.

It was hard telling Lip the rest. About how Ian kept pushing Mickey to talk to him, pushing to figure out what their next move was. Mickey's bruises were all yellowed, one of his eyes still swollen, and Ian just wanted him to  _ speak _ to him, but he wouldn't. 

Mickey had been drunk. And angry. And hurt. And shut down more than Ian had ever seen him. It scared Ian. Scared him so fucking much that his best friend, the love of his life, had collapsed that far inside of himself. And when Ian didn't back off… Mickey finally broke open and reacted. But not the way Ian wanted. 

Ian had taken a beating meant for three people. Mickey beat Ian instead of Terry, instead of Petrov, and instead of himself. Nothing about the situation —about what happened— was fair. And Ian was left there by their abandoned building, laying in the ground with a mouth full of blood, and tears in his eyes. 

And then the wedding… Ian could barely get the words out to tell Lip about the wedding. Before the wedding. When he snuck in where Mickey had been waiting, alone. Ian had been in a panic, reality smacking him in the face, feeling Mickey slip out of his fingers, along with Svetlana. 

“I fucking begged them to leave with me,” Ian said, wiping roughly at his eyes. “Begged Mickey to find Lana, and we’d just go, we’d run.”

Lip just stared at Ian with all this hurt in his eyes, his mouth hanging open just a little, like he was trying to find the words. Like for once in his life he didn’t have anything to say.

“Knew he couldn’t go, but I was going out of my fucking mind,” Ian sniffed. “Terry fucking won.” 

He shook his head, remembering that look on Mickey’s face when Ian asked him to run with him. That fallen, sorry, hurt face  _ —I want to go with you more than anything but I can’t you know I can’t, I don’t have a fucking choice here _ . Mickey didn’t need to say it when he made that face. He just kissed Ian. Kissed him hard, then soft, then walked out of the room. And Ian was left again, cold and hurting and dragging his fingers over his face, scrubbing harshly at his skin, trying not to break down again.

Mickey walked away and he never came back. So Ian had to push it down. Push it to the bottom of his pile of things he can’t handle.

Ian’s exhausted by the time he’s done talking. Emotionally fucking drained to the point where he doesn’t even remember when or how he got into bed, when Lip left, what Lip had said to him after asking Ian, “Why didn’t you ever say anything? Why didn’t you tell me?” 

He’ll end up calling out of work the next day, claiming illness.

He’s exhausted and staring up at his cracked ceiling, eyes sore and watery from crying so fucking much. Chest hurting from breathing so deep. Insides aching. He aches harder than he ever has. There’s no more tears left, but Ian lets out a breath of a sob, hands slowly coming up to cover his face.

That was the problem with forced break-ups, Ian supposed. He and Mickey didn’t end because they ran out of love, or because they grew to hate each other. They didn’t end because the relationship had stalled out. 

Ian’s nineteen years old again, and he’s just had the love of his life ripped out of his hands. He’s nineteen years old again, curled up in bed, crying his fucking eyes out. 

 

* * *

 

He runs. He runs farther than his normal route, stomping his feet down hard onto the sidewalk. Sweat is pouring down his face, and Ian just… runs. He’d let himself stay home from work, let himself cry it out, let himself scream into his fucking pillow. But he needed that extra push to clear his mind, to get back on track.

_ One two three, one two three, one two three _ . He counts his steps, weaving around an old couple trying their fucking best to help one another into a flower shop. He turns a corner when he’s met with a red light, halting pedestrians from crossing the street. He breathes in through his nose, out through his mouth, wiping the sweat from his brow. It doesn’t work, of course. He’s soaked. It’s so fucking hot out, and he’s pretty sure that the skin of his forehead is starting to burn. Goddamn Chicago summers.

When he finally gets back home, he makes a beeline for the shower, still panting heavily from his run, still coming down from that high. The shower feels good, scrubbing away last night’s pain. That’s what Ian tells himself, anyways. It’s a lie, and Ian knows it’s a lie. He’s told himself this lie for six years. But just one more day. He just needed one more day of the lie. 

And tomorrow, he’ll tell himself the same thing. Just one more day of the lie. Worked last time.

 

* * *

 

There was this moment at dinner with Mandy, right in the middle of her talking about her meeting her boyfriend’s grandparents, when time seemed to grind to a halt. It was just a second, maybe three at best. 

He almost told her. He almost told her everything.

 

* * *

 

The plan had been to stay away from South Side for as long as possible. But when Fiona has family dinners, everyone is required to show up. But Ian almost stormed out of the house when he got there and saw that the only people waiting for him were his big brother and sister and about a dozen Chinese food containers on the kitchen table. Leave it to his siblings to pull this shit.

Fiona had wedged herself between Ian and the front door, “I know this is fucked up, I’m sorry.”

“Can’t fucking trap me here,” Ian bit out at her. 

He stopped trying to leave though, shoving his hands into his pockets, clenching his jaw tightly. His eyes were already starting to sting. He couldn’t do this again, like with Lip. He couldn’t go through what happened, couldn’t feel that again. It would fucking break him. If he opened his mouth, he’d explode. 

As if Fiona knew what he was thinking, she shook her head, placing her hands on his shoulders, “Ian, no one is trapping you. You don’t even need to talk,” she said. Relief bled through Ian’s veins. His shoulders relaxed under his sister’s hands as she continued to talk. “Not if you don’t want to, okay? Don’t have to say anything. Lip told me everything —don’t be mad, you knew he would. We just…” she trailed off, shrugging her shoulders.

Lip was still standing in the kitchen doorway, cigarette hanging from his mouth. He jerked his head back, motioning to the kitchen table, “Peace offering. C’mon.”

“Carl’s at his girlfriend's… Liam’s over with Kev and Vee,” Fiona said. “It’s just us.”

So he sat down at the table, picking at the food that Lip and Fiona had curated for the night, half listening to them forcibly talk about the bullshit they had going on in their lives. It almost would’ve felt like back in the day, if it weren’t for the giant ass elephant in the room, reminding everyone that this “casual” conversation would take a turn sooner or later.

And it did, of course. But not how Ian thought it would, because it was him that spoke up first. Because as much as he’d been trying to lie to himself, he’s a constant victim of daydreams and secretly hoping for the universe to surprise him. Never learns his lesson.

“Do you see him around?” Ian asks Fiona.

She quiet for a second, before nodding, “Yeah. He comes into the diner sometimes. Not a lot, but… breakfast. Always leaves a good tip, keeps to himself.”

Ian nods back at her, lip caught between his teeth. He pokes at his chow mein with his fork, blinking a few times. “Pancakes?”

“Yeah,” Fiona sighs. He can feel his siblings exchange a glance. There’s a little hesitation before she adds, “He looks real good. Looks healthy.”

It’s something that Ian didn’t know he desperately needed to hear until that moment. He drops his fork, elbows resting on the table, hands scrubbing over his face as he lets out a slow breath that has been caught in the back of his throat for six years.

“Lana too,” Fiona adds as she scoots her chair closer to his, hand rubbing at his back. “I run into her at the supermarket sometimes.”

She looked good, last Ian saw. He wanted to tell her that, wanted to hug her and take her to lunch, or dinner, or whatever he could. Wanted to ask what she’d been up to. But he couldn’t. He’s seen her around sporadically. A few awkward greetings, but they don’t talk anymore. It’s his fault. All his fault. 

He’s always scared that they’ll start talking, and then he’ll break down in the middle of conversation, and bring up old shit that both of them want to forget. And it’s been so fucking long that at this point… at this point Ian can’t help but think it’s too late. He fucked it up so bad. 

“You didn’t fuck it up,” Lip says, making Ian realize that he had spoken out loud. “Terry fucked it up. He’s a psychotic fucking monster, Ian.  _ He _ fucked it up, not you.”

“Should’ve been there for her,” Ian wiped at his eyes.

Fiona grips his hand, silently telling him to look at her, so he does. “Listen to me,” she says. Her eyes are knowing as she continues, “We can’t do anything about the past, Ian. It’s over with. The only thing we can focus on is what’s happening  _ now _ .”

“But, I should’ve—”

“It’s over, Ian,” Lip says gently, blowing out a cloud of smoke.  He shakes his head. “You were nineteen, you know, give yourself a fucking break. There was nothing you could’ve done about it, and nothing you can do now.”

Fiona nods, “Six years did a lot for you, Ian. You’ve grown up so fucking much. You’re doing shit with your life...“

Ian can’t help but frown at his sister’s words, her tone, “Hold on. What’re you saying?”

She hesitates. Lip doesn’t. “She’s saying what happened to you three was beyond fucked up, and something no one should ever have to fucking go though. But you’ve got a whole life now, Ian. And the shit Mickey’s involved in was never good for you.”

Ian barks a laugh, running his hands over his hair as he looks at his brother and sister. Holy fucking shit. “Wow,” he breathes, shaking his head. He gets up from the table, unable to string together the words he wants to use. “Wow, so this was… holy shit. Holy fucking shit.”

“Ian,” Fiona sighs.

“Oh my god,” Ian laughs again. Humorless and shocked. Peace offering. He should have fucking known that this little heart to heart was nothing more than Fiona and Lip once again sitting him down to tell him all the reasons why Mickey Milkovich was bad for him.

“Look at what happened the last time you two were together,” Lip says.

Ian feels like he was just punched in the gut. He glared hard at his brother, fists balling up at his sides. How fucking dare he throw that shit back in his face. What a Lip move. Ian takes a deep breath, clenching his jaw tightly because while he’s not even able to form the fucking words right now, he’s pretty sure if he would say something he’d regret later. 

Instead he just shakes his head at Lip. Viciously, he spits, “Fuck you.”

Fiona points at Lip, “Not okay.”

The house feels too small, all of a sudden. This house. His clothes. The air. It’s too small, it’s too fucking suffocating. Ian stomps out of the kitchen, repeating his last sentiment when both Lip and Fiona call for him to come back and talk to them. 

Ian is hot all over, he’s hot and tense to the point where his shoulders ache. _ Look at what happened the last time you two were together _ . Fuck Lip. Fuck Fiona. Who fucking says that shit? Who would ever think that’s o-fucking-kay to say that? Lip. He’s such a prick, and Ian has half the mind to walk back into the kitchen and hit him.

“Ian, wait,” Lip’s voice is behind him when he’s stomping down the front steps. 

“Stay the fuck away from me,” Ian warns him.

He doesn’t listen though. Of course. Ian’s about two steps away from his car when he feels a hand curl over his shoulder, spinning him around. Lip’s looking at him, shaking his head, “Okay, that was a low—”

Ian’s fist is flying before he even registers it. He clipped Lip in the side of the face, hearing the  _ thwack _ of the punch, watching Lip’s head jerk to the side before he stumbles back, falling a little to the ground. Fiona, of course, is there to steady him before he falls.

“Ian!” Fiona scolds him like when he about about five, and took off running down the sidewalk, just because.

His voice is hissing and harsh when he speaks to his big sister, trying to keep his voice down so the neighbors don’t start filing out to see the commotion. “No! No  _ Ian _ !”

“We’re just looking out for you,” Fiona’s dark eyes are panicked, searching. 

“I don’t need you to!” He ends up yelling anyways, losing all control of sense. His arms flying out  on either side of him before points at his brother and sister, “Of all the fucking people in the world, you two are the  _ last _ that are allowed to pull this shit! So fuck off.” 

Someone in a surrounding house yells out a window for them to  _ shut the fuck up _ . They ignore it. It’s quiet between the three of them. Ian’s breathing hard. Lip’s breathing hard. Fiona’s standing there with her arms crossed, just shaking her head.

This was useless. Completely fucking useless. Ian gives Lip a strong middle finger, then climbs into his car. Fuck this. Fuck them. Not only did Ian not have any plans of getting back with Mickey, because it was fucking  _ impossible,  _ between Terry and the club _ …  _ he damn sure didn’t ask for their fucking permission or blessing, or whatever the fuck. And Lip looking down at him on his high fucking horse,  _ look at what happened last time _ … fuck off.

He ends up at a liquor store; buys a 40 (something he hasn’t done in forever), a pack of cigarettes, and a little bottle of whiskey. Because tomorrow was his late-shift day, and fuck everything about tonight, he earned this.

Can’t go talk to Mandy. Can’t talk to Lip, obviously. The only other people he’d want to talk to about any of this are Mickey and Svetlana… that’s not possible. Maybe the anger is clouding his judgement more than Ian thought, because after he gets back into his car from the liquor store, a few turns later he’s pulled up to the baseball field. Like on instinct. Didn’t even have to think about it, his body just… 

Ian sits in his car, looking out into the dark field. He turns the ignition off, opens his 40, and starts chugging (tastes like absolute shit, just like he remembers). There is so much swarming around inside of Ian’s head. It’s hard to latch onto one thing. The easiest is anger, though. Anger towards Fiona and Lip. Anger towards Terry.

“Stop,” Ian whispers to himself. He closes his eyes, leaning back against the headrest. “Just stop.”

He doesn’t want to keep feeling like this. It’s like ever since he found out that Mickey got out of prison, his emotions have been all over the fucking place —mainly down in the gutter. Hasn’t cried this much in so long, hasn’t hurt this much in so long. He just wants it to stop for one fucking second, let him breathe, let him just not feel for one second.

Mandy told him Mickey got out, and the dam fucking broke. Instantly. That’s what happens when you push things back for so long. It’s gotta come out, eventually. Ian always learned his lessons the hard way, why should this one be any different.

Again, his body took over. Most of the 40 was gone, and Ian was feeling his buzz wrap gently around his shoulders, draping down his back to his legs. Warm and blurred, Ian grabbed his little bottle of whiskey and got out of his car, locking up, following his feet to where they wanted to go. 

He smiled. Like, a real fucking smile. Felt like his mouth was cracking at the corners, because it had been too long since he did that. He looked down at his watch while he walked across the field, brows creasing. How did it become midnight already?

When he stepped down into the dugouts, he almost fell over. Ian reached out to the chainlink, shaking his head roughly as he got his balance. Fuck, he hadn’t been here in… more than six years. Last time he was there, he’d been with Mickey. They didn’t even fuck, just spent a few hours drinking and bullshitting around, like they used to before they got together. That had been a good night.

Ian let himself smile again, sitting heavily on the bench with his gross, cheap malt liquor. 

_ “How long you gonna be gone?” _

_ Mickey shrugged, cracking open his beer can, “Probably just the weekend.” _

_ Ian nodded, leaning back against the dugout wall as he looked at Mickey sitting on the ledge across from him, downing his third beer. He smirked, watching the brunette’s throat move with every chug. “Gonna miss me?” he teased. _

_ Mickey kept drinking, raising a middle finger. Ian laughed. After he took a breather from his beer, Mickey let out an obnoxious, but insanely charming burp, setting his can aside. “Should be asking you that. You’ve been grilling me about this fucking run since I told you about it.” _

_ Ian rolled his eyes, “Have not.” _

_ Mickey nodded at him, brows arched high, “Yeah.” _

_ Ian flipped him off this time before he took a drink from his beer. He shrugged, “Just gonna be bored as shit.” _

_ Mickey stood, pushing off from the ledge as he strolled over to Ian’s side, head cocked along with his smile, “You think it’s my fucking job to entertain you, Gallagher?” _

_ Ian reached for Mickey’s belt loop, tugging him closer as he looked up into blue eyes. He grinned, “That’s what boyfriends do, yeah. Entertain me, bitch.” _

_ Mickey rolled his eyes that time, letting Ian jerk him closer, his handlebar-calloused hands brushing into Ian’s hair, nails scratching at his scalp. Felt so fucking good when he did that; Ian had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from moaning. Mickey laughed, “When’d you get so fucking needy?” _

_ “Right around the first time you kissed me,” Ian shot back at him with a laugh.  _

_ The brunette blushed a little, and Ian grinned at that. Fucking loved when he could get Mickey to blush. Loved when he got to see that side of him. Ian pulled Mickey closer, making his boyfriend have to straddle him, climbing onto his lap. _

_ “Jesus,” Mickey complained because old habits die hard, and no matter how many times Ian’s told him that sitting in his lap doesn’t make him look like a bitch, Mickey still grumped about it. _

_ “Shut up,” Ian breathed, grabbing at Mickey’s cut, kissing him. _

Ian looked down at the bottle in his hand, blinking slowly at it. Had about a couple swigs left, and he was already slipping into that tired-drunk phase. He knew he should pour himself into the backseat of his car and sleep it off, but it was a nice night, and he was already set up nice here in the dugouts. So he sighed, setting the 40 down next to his untouched whiskey, and slid down to lay on the narrow bench, praying he didn’t roll off in his sleep. 

The last thought on his mind before he drifted off was how this was such a fucking Frank move, and tomorrow he’d be so ashamed and fucking pissed at himself. But right now, it was the closest he could get to Mickey. So he’d take it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you believe that they still haven't breathed the same air omfg


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WAIT DONT IGNORE THIS NOTE!   
> (kinda sorta spoilers in this note tho BUT READ FOR CONTENT WARNING IF YOU FEEL YOU NEED TO)
> 
> Just because I want to cover all my bases in tags and warnings etc... in the first 'section' of this chapter, there is mention of the subject of abortion. Emotions in an argument are jumbled and confusing & without giving away anything before you read, there is a moment of 'you need to get an abortion/you're getting an abortion' but it passes. There is NO forced abortion; there is NO forced pregnancy. 
> 
> Also remember I tagged this fic with misogyny, which plays a role in the above.

The Iron Eagles were throwing a small party. Actually it wasn’t even a party, just a bunch of girls coming over to entertain the club members after they got done talking business. Mickey had a hard time concentrating in the meeting. Had a hard time keeping a straight face as his monster of a father sat at the head of the table and banged his fist as he spoke. He kept seeing those fucking crime scene photos, kept trying to think of how the hell he could get his father to talk about what he did. To confess.

The beer was helping his shoulders to sink back down to their natural state. Curved that edge down, and Terry not being in Mickey’s sight right now was helping a whole fuck-ton too. 

Hannah was draped across Mickey’s lap again. She’d stopped wearing that godforsaken perfume, so she was a lot easier to deal with. She stayed quiet while Mickey listened to one of the old-timers at the club rattle on about something to do with the police.  _ Complaining _ . That’s all the old-timers really did anymore, complain. He wasn’t listening as hard as he should have been, wasn’t giving the guy the respect that he earned.

There was just so fucking much on his mind. Too much going on, too much to think about.

But he acted like he was keeping up, nodding every once in a while, keeping his hand secured on Hannah’s hip. She was leaning her side against his chest —tits in his face, arm snaked around his shoulders, fingers idly playing with an edge of his cut. He’d have to fuck her later, he supposed. Hopefully between now and then, he could grab a pill from Sully, wherever the fuck he went. If not, he’d have to do this shit old-school and will his body to work properly.

“Are you  _ fucking _ kidding me?” A very fucking pissed off voice tore Mickey out of his thoughts.

His eyes widened, mouth spreading to an involuntary wide open-mouthed smile for an instant as he saw Svetlana stomping towards him and Hannah. He recovered quickly though, ducking when his wife lashed her hand out for the top of his head.

Hannah shrieked, being pulled off of Mickey’s lap, dragged onto the floor. “Ay! _Shit_ —Lana, stop!” Mickey scrambled towards the two women. 

Svetlana was going the fuck off. She spat angry Russian at Hannah, curling her fingers into her blonde hair. No one around them was really helping the situation. If anything, they were laughing, egging Svetlana on. The guys loved a good cat-fight.

“Oh shit!” Mickey heard Iggy. “Lana, go easy, watch the face!”

It didn’t last very long. Mickey pried Svetlana away from Hannah, who was probably going to have a nice shiner from the altercation. Her nose was bleeding, too. All Svetlana walked away with from the scuffle was messy hair and ruffled clothes. She tried to kick at Hannah, but Mickey pulled her back just in time. A couple of the other girls tentatively came to Hannah’s aid, but kept their heads down, not daring to look directly at Svetlana.

“Easy,” Mickey hauled Svetlana away from the girl. He hooked his arm around her waist, dragging her towards the back hall.

Svetlana was still yelling though, struggling in Mickey’s hold, but not too much. If she would have been really trying, she’d probably be able to break free no problem. “Fucking cunt! I  _ ever _ catch you on my husband again, I’ll kill you!”

Mickey’s held in his laugh, “Lana, stop!”

“No! Fuck you!” Svetlana spit at him, turning her yelling onto him as they made their way down the hall. She hollered loud, making a show of smacking at his shoulders, grabbing at his clothes. “Are you fucking kidding me, Mickey?!  _ That _ little whore, are you  _ kidding _ me?”

“Okay, okay,” Mickey hushed under his breath, pushing his room’s door open. He closed and locked it behind them, shaking his head at her while he laughed, “Gave her a fucking bloody nose.”

Svetlana shrugged a shoulder, sitting down on the edge of his bed, “Had to sell it.”

“Gonna have to make it up to her now,” Mickey scratched the back of his neck.

Svetlana raised two fingers to her mouth like a peace sign, “Or I could.” She stuck her tongue out rudely.

“I like that idea better.”

“My days of playing with your girls are long over. I got more than enough with Es,” Svetlana waved him off. 

“Handful, huh?” Mickey smirked.

Svetlana nodded, “I’m surprised one of us hasn’t gotten fucking lockjaw already.” She paused, giving Mickey a sympathetic look, “Your side-bitch knows the drill. You’re fine. She’s hot though, I'm impressed. Nice tits.”

Mickey gave her the middle finger before he took his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, lighting one up. He sighed, making sure to pay attention to what was going on on the other side of his door while he paced, feeling fidgety after Svetlanas little impromptu show. “S’going on, what’re you doing here?”

Svetlana smiled slow, “Well… I have some news. Gonna get us a shitload of money. Just have to wait for it.”

Mickey nodded, “How long?”

“About… eight months.”

He stopped pacing, brows creased, “Eight months? That’s too fucking long.”

“It’s forty grand,” She said. “Besides, it’s too late, I’m already pregnant.”

Mickey stopped pacing, feeling the blood drain from his entire body. His fleeting decent mood was violently spoiled. Felt like someone dumped a bucket of ice water on his fucking head. He couldn’t’ve heard that right, right? Didn’t really know why he felt that pull of dread, felt like he was going to be sick… wasn’t like  _ he _ had knocked her up.

This is where something deep within Mickey got all twisted up... and all rationale removed itself from his body, and then proceeded to walk out of the room.

“The fuck are you talking about?” He asked. Felt like he was his motorcycle, revving up, engine heating and he couldn’t stop it. “You’re fucking  _ pregnant _ ?”

This felt weirdly familiar… like he’d had this nightmare before. 

“I’m surrogating for this North Side couple,” Svetlana nodded. “Forty grand, easy. I’m already a month along. You can’t see anything yet, but...” She stood up, raising her shirt.

Mickey took a step back away from Svetlana. He couldn’t process this right now. Her stomach looked normal, but watching her then pull out one of those sticks from her purse had his mind  _ reeling _ . He shook his head, taking a drag from his cigarette. 

Hot,  _ hot  _ irrational engine. Logic was looking him square in the face, trying to get his attention, but he couldn’t reach out and grab it.

“Why the fuck would you do this?” He asked her, pointing at her stomach. “The fuck are you thinking?”

She scowled at him, “It’s an easy forty grand!”

“No,” Mickey shook his head, kept shaking his head, his hand gesturing towards her again. “Fuck this, go get it taken out, you’re not doing this shit.”

He didn’t know what was happening to him, but he felt like his skin was covered in itching powder. Felt like that itching powder had been poured down his throat. Had him thinking of things he didn’t want to think about. Pregnant. Fucking pregnant.

She crossed her arms, shaking her head right back at him, “I’m not getting a fucking _abortion_ , it’s not even—” 

“We said we wouldn’t fucking do this!” Mickey yelled. “We _agreed_ you weren’t having a fucking baby!”

Even as he said the words, he knew he wasn’t making sense... he was being fucking crazy, but the words were falling out of his mouth anyways. He knew exactly what a fucking surrogate meant, and that this wasn’t his fucking baby —he knew that Svetlana would pop the thing out when the time came, hand the little shit over, collect their money and then they’d be that much closer to getting the fuck out. He  _ knew _ all of that. 

But none of that mattered seeing that pregnancy test… hearing those words… he’s had this exact nightmare before.

“It’s not yours! It’s not even  _ mine  _ —we don’t keep this! What is  _ wrong _ with you?”

“The fuck is wrong with  _ you _ ? You just fucking showed up and you’re fucking  _ pregnant _ ?” Mickey bit out. “You just… you just did it! Didn’t even ask me!”

Her brows shot up, “ _ Ask _ you?”

There’s this part that’s been programmed into Mickey since before he can remember. It’s directly related to the club. Directly related to how club members are supposed to act, how they’re supposed to be the head of their households, keep their women in check. All this shit that is so fucking archaic and shitty, and Mickey only saved it for chicks that hung around the club, when they got too mouthy.  

Shit was too mixed up in his head to think straight. He’s had this nightmare, and he wants the fuck out of it now. He couldn’t fight through the haze; it was choking him.

His whole body was getting hot again. The back of his neck, the sides of his face. He nodded, “Yeah, you didn’t fucking ask me! Didn’t say  _ shit _ to me! Who the fuck you think you are, thinking you can just run around and pull this shit? I didn’t say you could do this! You’re getting a fucking abortion, end of fucking story.”

(He wasn’t supposed to talk to Svetlana like this)

Her chin raises in defiance at him, but her arms are still crossed. She presses her lips together tight, staring him down, “Go on.”

“What?” 

“Gotta check your Ol’ Lady when she gets out of line,” She snarled at him. “So let’s go. You taking cues from the old-timers now? What’s it gonna be, Mickey? You gonna hit me?”

Her words pulled him back to center quicker than lightning, but he couldn’t back down. Not that fast. After all, she  _ did _ put them in a fucking box, when they had to be as flexible as possible. And eight month fucking box. That was too long. The feds working Terry’s case weren’t gonna be happy at  _ all _ with this. 

“Fuck you,” Mickey spat in disgust, walking away from her, going to his dresser. He stubbed out his cigarette in the glass ashtray he kept there, then got another one of of his pack, lighting it up. “Acting like I put my hands on you. Fuck you. I’ve never—” 

“Sounded just like them,” her voice was hard.

Again, “Fuck you.”

She grabbed onto his shoulder, and Mickey shrugged her off. The second time, she spun him around, eyes full of Russian fire, pointer fingers digging into his chest as she hissed at him, “I may  _ legally _ be your wife, but I’m  _ no one’s _ Ol’ Lady. Don’t you  _ ever _ forget who the fuck I am.”

“Back the fuck up,” Mickey said through his teeth. 

She didn’t. He knew she wouldn’t. She never does. 

“You weren’t the only one who was in prison for six years, asshole. You were in there, but I was here —and I had fucking  _ no one _ ! You don’t know. So I don’t have to ask you  _ shit _ ! Fuck you,” when she finished, she took a step back, giving him space. She sniffed, wiping at her nose. 

Mickey clenched his jaw, taking a couple deep breaths. They hadn’t butted heads like that in so damn long, Mickey had almost forgot that it was a thing. “Dealing with all this other shit, and you dump this on me too. Eight months is too fucking long. You fucked us, Lana.”

She shook her head, eyes rolling, “They can wait. If  _ I _ can wait, they can wait.”

Mickey let his shoulders fall, moving to sit next to her on the bed. He offered her his cigarette, not thinking; she declined anyways. It was quiet for a little while, while both of them calmed down. He didn’t know what to say, other than sorry, and even though he knew he should, he didn’t. Wouldn’t. This was such a fucked up situation and throwing a pregnancy on it too was just… it was impulsive and stupid, as good as the money was.

“Forty grand, huh?” Mickey finally broke the silence.

She nodded, fiddling with the pregnancy test, “Already got ten of it.”

“S’a good start,” he sighed. A really fucking good start. They could really do some shit with forty grand.

“I know I should’ve given you a heads up,” Svetlana sighed back at him. “It happened so fast. I didn’t think it would take, but… we’ll figure it out.”

Mickey nodded, “Yeah.”

 

* * *

 

He rode. Didn’t think about where he was going, just fucking  _ rode _ . He rode circles around South Side, dipping up and down streets until he had to pull over into a gas station and fill up his tank. And then he rode some more; when he wasn't riding, he was smoking, pulled over to a place he could lean against his bike and glare at the rest of the world, because _fuck_ the rest of the world.

The plan was to ride until his mind went blank. But Mickey knew better before he even got on his bike after Svetlana left the clubhouse. His mind was never truly fucking blank, not anymore. There was too much to think about. Too much to plan, too much to figure out. And now adding on a fucking  _ pregnancy _ to the pile. It could probably work for their benefit. Mickey just had to figure out how the fuck to make that happen. 

And then under all the other shit. All the worries and planning… there was Ian. He was always fucking there, though. Always. Under his skin, in his veins… Mickey couldn’t shake him. Fuck, he didn’t want to shake him. He wished he knew where Ian was living now, wished he wasn’t such a fucking coward and could just… 

Late, late night comes quicker than Mickey wanted it to. He’d spent most of his evening on his bike, and his body hums with ache from it. It’s a sweet ache. That familiar ache of part wanting to go back and ride around some more, and part ache from the tension that had built up in his muscles while he rode. He liked that ache. It spread over his shoulders and down his back, curled around his arms. Vibrated down to his bones.

His underlying thoughts of Ian dictate Mickey’s movements. He drives past the baseball fields, turns his bike around, then pulls into the little shitty parking lot. There’s another car already there, and it almost makes Mickey turn right back out of there, but something makes him stay, makes him turn his bike off and sit, staring out into the field. 

The one spotlight is doing a shit job at illuminating the diamond. It always did a shit job though, that’s why he and Ian had loved it so much. While he sits on his bike, he takes a cigarette out from his pack he keeps in his pockets, lighting it up. Enjoying the nicotine while he allows himself to reminisce. 

He gets halfway through the cigarette when his nostalgia finally gets the best of him. He wants to see if his and Ian’s carvings in the dugout walls have been painted over. Wants to see if that old dented metal bench is still there.

Mickey’s knees almost give out when he steps down into the dugouts. His cigarette falls from his mouth, stomach plummeting to the ground. He’s frozen where he stands, staring at Ian all curled on his side, sleeping off the alcohol that was left on the ground next to the bench. 

Everything else burns up and floats away. The only thing left standing in Mickey’s mind is the redheaded man that he’s currently staring at. The redheaded man that had no idea Mickey was even there. Should he leave? He should leave, right? No… fuck, he shouldn’t just leave Ian here, all drunk and sleeping. Someone could fucking mug him, or… 

Mickey doesn’t know what the fuck else to do except for stare at him. He wants to reach out and touch him, make sure he’s real. Wants to feel the softness of his hair so badly, wants to trace over his freckles and the line of his jaw. Just wants to touch him. He’s real, right? He’s really fucking there, he’s…

Mickey finally tears his eyes away from Ian to look at the clock that hung in the dugout. It was eerily a quarter to one. For once, Ian was here before him. He shook his head, unable to keep the smile from reaching his lips. His eyes stung a little, and a breath caught in his throat. But he pushed it down, moving quietly to sit on the other end of the bench.

Just a little longer, then he’ll go. He just wanted to look at Ian a little longer. Share the same space, breathe the same air. Just a few more minutes. Because even if Ian wanted anything to do with Mickey again, it wasn’t like it would work out. Mickey was leaving. For good. He was going to disappear and never fucking look back. To start something with Ian again, right before he left… that would be fucking cruel, wouldn’t it? Yeah. It would be a bad fucking move.

God, he was beautiful. He was always so fucking beautiful. Mickey used to just  _ look _ at him, used to try to imprint Ian into his mind. Used to try to play it off like he wasn’t in complete fucking awe of Ian’s beauty, but he never really could. 

Mickey sniffed, pressing his fingers to the inner corners of his eyes. Couldn’t get all fucking sentimental right now. Bad enough he was sitting here fucking staring at Ian like some stalker, couldn’t cry over him too.

His body begged to cry. Begged to scream and cry and wake Ian up to talk to him, to apologize for everything, to kiss him. Fuck, he wanted to kiss Ian. Being connected to someone like that again, he  _ craved _ that, deep in his bones. Mickey could fuck just about anyone, but kissing… that was something fucking special, that was near goddamn sacred, stupid as it sounded. But right now, all Mickey could focus on was the memory of Ian’s lips on his. Again he sniffed, sucking back the tears, trying to sort himself out. 

He should leave. If he stayed any longer, he’d fuck everything up.

Mickey nodded to himself, getting one last look at Ian before he stood and turned to leave.

“Mick?”

He closed his eyes, whole body tensing up from the sound of his name. His chest was made of rubber-bands and they all stretched at once, tightening around him. He pants soft breaths, unable to turn back around, unable to move. Even when he heard the slow rustling of movement behind him, heard the footsteps —careful and measured— he couldn’t turn around.

And then Ian fucking Gallagher was standing in front of him, green eyes wide. He smelled of cheap alcohol and cigarettes. His hair was a little messy, clothes a little rumpled. If Mickey thought he was beautiful before when he was sleeping, it was nothing compared to awake and standing directly in front of him. Six years made Ian into a proper fucking  _ man _ .

“Mick,” Ian breathed. His wide eyes got all glassy, and Mickey wanted to reach out and touch him, tell him not to start that shit, that it was okay, that he was sorry, that he’ll go. He’ll leave him alone, and won’t bother him.

Words were completely failing him. Glue and mud and needles filled his mouth, blocking his voice. All he could do was stare, helpless and frozen while something hot spilled down his cheek. Ian went blurry. And just like that, Mickey’s walls, his whole sense of keeping his shit together, crumbed to the ground. Not a surprise though, that’s what Ian did to him.

This  _ desperate _ shuddering release of air pushed out of Mickey’s mouth when Ian reached for him, cupping the side of his face. Like a man who had never been touched in his life, Mickey didn’t fight it anymore, letting his body heavily lean into the touch. 

He really truly thought that he’d never feel Ian again. 

“Tell me this is really happening,” Ian whispered.

All Mickey could do to respond is nod, hand coming up to cover Ian’s, pressing it flat against his face. He was so warm, just like Mickey remembered. Seared against his skin. 

“Mick,” Ian said again. Fuck, he missed how he said that. Missed how it made him feel.

It was probably a really fucking  _ bad _ move, probably opening a huge can of shit, but both of them just fucking went for it. Because it was them. Because as shitty as everything was left, as fucked up as everything had become, as awful an idea it was to engage at all… it was them. It was Ian and Mickey. And they couldn't just  _ not _ . 

Mickey reached for the back of Ian’s neck, Ian pulled him in. 

But the universe is a cruel fucking bitch that was never fair to Mickey, and as soon as he finally, fucking finally felt the brush of Ian’s lips against his, as soon as the other man’s warm breath bled over his mouth, he heard it.

“Mick? Mickey, you here?” Sully’s voice rang out in the distance. 

Mickey cursed under his breath, stepping around Ian to catch Sully before he fucking came down there looking for Mickey. Sully would only come looking for him here if it was an emergency. This could not be happening at a  _ worse _ time. 

“S’going on?” Mickey asked, coming into view. 

Sully stopped walking, his eyes darting behind Mickey quickly, but he didn't say anything. He probably knew who was back there, or at the very least knew by the state of Mickey's face that it wasn't a good time. 

“Uh,” Sully hesitated. “Terry sent Iggy out by himself. He’s in one piece, but he caught a bullet in his shoulder. We're getting everyone back to the club to—”

Mickey cursed loudly, digging in his pocket for his keys, “Are you fucking _kidding_ me?”

“I wish.”

“Fuck!”

Sully nodded, then gestured to the dugouts behind Mickey, “You good?”

Mickey went cold, glancing over his shoulder, but Ian hadn't come out. Thank god. “Yeah,” he told Sully. “I'll meet you there, okay?”

Again, Sully nodded, getting the hint that Mickey needed a minute, then retreated from the field. After he heard the roar of Sully’s bike, he ran a hand over his hair while he took a deep breath. Felt his shoulders fall a little, releasing the tension from his body, then finally he double backed and made his way into the dugout again.

Empty. He hadn’t imagined it, right? Ian had been there, right, he’d been right there, and touched Mickey’s face. He’d smelled like Colt 45 and Marlboros. He’d been beautiful, with sad shocked eyes and rumpled clothes. He’d… he’d fucking been there  _ —right _ ?

Mickey looked around like Ian would pop out at any moment. But he never did. Mickey jogged out of the dugout, looking towards the parking lot, seeing tail lights pull away, riding off into the night. His eyes stung again. Worse this time. Stung all the way down to his belly. His heart hurt, his head hurt, everything hurt. 

“Fuck!” Mickey yelled, kicking the tall chain link fence. He doubled over, pressing his hands into his eyes hard, screaming inside his head to calm the fuck down. “Stop, stop, stop,” he whispered harshly. 

He couldn’t do this now. He couldn’t fucking do this, he had to get back to the club, he had to calm the fuck down. So he took another deep breath. Then another. Standing up straight, he kept breathing, moving towards his bike. He couldn’t have a fucking breakdown with his brother shot and the club needing him. 

_ Fuck _ .

He sped his way to the club, forcing himself to focus on what was waiting for him. It was the only thing that was going to keep him sane right now. The only thing holding him together. 

Mickey was there in minutes, parking his bike and rushing into the club. He weaved around members and girls, ducking into the meeting room where they had Iggy laid out on the long table, bloody towels dropped everywhere while his brother moaned and cursed in pain.

“The fuck happened?” Mickey questioned.

“Took you long enough to get here,” Terry’s voice came up behind Mickey. 

Fuck it. Mickey clenched his fist, turning to face his father, “You sent him _by himself_? What, getting one son locked up wasn’t enough, gotta get another one killed?”

Terry’s face hardened, “Who the fuck—”

“Move!” 

The almost-altercation was cut short as a blonde pushed past them. Mickey pulled a face, watching Hannah make her way towards the table. She wasn’t dressed in her normal short, tight skirt and low top. Real fucking casual —jeans and a sweatshirt, hair piled up on top of her head. Wasn’t even wearing makeup, but she had a bruise under her left eye. 

“The… fuck?” Mickey mumbled. He watched her point and direct a couple old-timers and girls standing around. Clean up this, put pressure here, hold this, back up, move over here, etc.

“Mickey!” Hannah called to him. “Come hold this flashlight, I can’t see.”

It took him half a second, but he got his shit together and walked around the table to where Hannah was, taking the flashlight from her hand and shining it on Iggy’s bullet wound. His brother continued to groan in pain, groans turning to loud curses when Hannah started in on the wound. Someone gave Iggy a bottle, and he started chugging it immediately.

Mickey was a bit struck speechless by the sight of Hannah doing her thing, but he followed directions, watching as much as he could. The bullet hole was messy; torn flesh around the hole. Bleeding all over the place, fucking up part of the large S part of Iggy’s Iron Eagles brand.

“You a fucking doctor?” Mickey asked Hannah.

She didn’t answer right away, concentrating while she got her equipment ready, “ER nurse,” she finally said.

“Are you for-fucking-real?”

“Yeah,” Hannah looked at him, brows raised. “I’m for-fucking-real. Keep that flashlight steady. Sully, come over here and make sure he doesn’t move. This is gonna hurt like a bitch.”

Half an hour later, Iggy was patched up, sore as hell, and put up in one of the back rooms with a couple girls tending to his every need. A couple girls, a shit load of weed, and that bottle of liquor he’d been chugging on. He'd be fine.

The meeting came and went. It had been really brief. Iggy was sent to make a gun drop and collect the money for said drop. Shit went south. Same old story. They’d have to plan a retaliation, of course, they’d have to figure out their next step. Terry pulled the Milkovich card like Mickey knew he would — _ how dare these motherfuckers try to kill a Milkovich _ , blah blah blah. It took everything in him not to stand up in the middle of the meeting and call Terry out for his fucking bullshit, took everything in him not to stand up and shoot him in the fucking head.

No one went out on a gun drop alone. Ever. Shit could go down, you never knew what could happen. But Terry sent Iggy, of all fucking people he’d sent his own son out to make a fucking  _ gun drop _ to a gang that they had shaky ties with. Terry just couldn’t fucking help himself, could he. He just  _ had _ to set his sons up. Had to.  _ Builds character, makes a man a man  _ —fuck off.

After the meeting, Terry roughly grabbed at Mickey’s arm, pulling him to the side, “Ain’t done with you, boy.”

Mickey, about done with the entire fucking world at this point, jerked his arm out of Terry’s grasp, “What?”

“You ever disrespect me in front of his club again,” Terry snarled at him. “You’re gonna do another six. Best fucking believe that.”

Didn’t even pretend to deny that he’d set Mickey up to get thrown in prison. What a piece of shit. Mickey snarled back at his father —the first time in his life he had ever had the backbone to do so, “You ever get one of my brothers shot again, you’re going in the fucking ground. Believe  _ that _ , motherfucker.”

For a near old-timer, Terry was quick, curling his hand in the collar of Mickey’s shirt, hitting his fist hard against his throat. Mickey coughed, grabbing onto his father’s balled up fist, trying to pry it off of him but to no avail.

He didn’t even say anything, just got in Mickey’s face, staring him down real hard. Then, “Where were you?”

Mickey felt his face contort in confusion, “What?”

“You fucking heard me. What fucking took you so long to get here —where were you?” He let go of Mickey with a shove, sneer spread across his lips like he knew exactly what was about to come out of Mickey’s mouth.

He wanted to fucking scream and kick. He wanted to throw a toddler-level fit. There was so much on Mickey’s shoulders, so much he had to think about, that he had to keep straight, that the question had just snuck up on him, and his only response (that he had to push down) that he could think of was to strangle the older man.

If fucking  _ only _ .

He took everything away from Mickey. Took Ian away from Mickey. Took that one slice of happiness he was ever awarded, took the only person who… 

There were a million other things that Mickey wished he could say, but he couldn’t. Wished he could spit in his father's face and tell him that he was with Ian. That he still liked getting fucked, still liked having a cock down his throat. He  _ loved _ it, and he was fucking  _ good _ at it, and good at taking it. He wanted to tell Terry that everything he had put him through was for fucking  _ nothing _ , because at the end of the day he was still a fucking faggot. And as much as Mickey hated it, he fucking loved it that much more. Fuck Terry. 

Couldn’t say that though. The illusion needed to be kept up; it wasn’t just his ass on the line with this shit. He had to look out for Svetlana too. 

And the hard reality was that Mickey, no matter what the fuck he did, would never get what he was looking for from his father. He was never going to see pride from him. He was  _ never _ going to get any kind of approval. He forfeited that when he was twelve years old and realized why he didn’t get crushes on girls like the rest of the boys. It was time he fucking admitted that to himself; Terry  _ truly _ had no love for him —for  _ anyone, _ except for himself. And there was never going to be an exception. So just get this over with, and in the end Terry would get everything he’d deserve. He’d never see the light of day ever again.

“You really wanna know, I was balls-deep in my wife,” Mickey spat. “You wanna call her and make sure? Wanna go over there and check the fucking bed for come-stains?  _ What _ ?”

A little voice in the back of his head scolded him, an old habit;  _ have you lost all goddamn sense? Bluffing? Talking to Terry like that —the fuck, do you have a deathwish? _ Mickey bit the inside of his cheek. Fuck that voice. He was done trying.

Terry snarled again at him, “Pay your bitch for her services, and get the  _ fuck _ out of my club.”

Mickey sniffed, wiping at his bottom lip as he watched Terry walk away, “Yeah.”

 

* * *

 

The futon mattress made him feel like he was back in prison. Mickey stared up at the guest bedroom ceiling, unblinking. Fire coursed through his veins. Fire and dread, twirling together, making everything even more uncomfortable than it already was. He took deep, measured breaths, watching the room gradually get brighter with the morning.

He hadn’t slept last night, after getting back from the club, not really. Svetlana almost bashed his fucking head in with a claw-hammer when he let himself in; she hadn’t expected him. She ended up giving him a set of sheets and blankets, and an extra pillow, not asking any questions as to why he wasn’t sleeping at the club. 

He'd taken a shower that was entirely too long and hot, trying to calm his scattered nerves. Didn't work. 

He wouldn’t be sleeping at the club anymore. Mickey decided that he was back home permanently. The thought of spending any more time under the same roof as Terry made him sick. 

Louder than every other thought in his mind, though, was the way Ian said his name. What a fucked up twist of fate that they would find each other there, of all fucking places. It had to mean something, right? Fucking had to.

The last time Mickey looked Ian in eyes had been minutes before the wedding. Ian still had bruises under his wet eyes, his lips trembling as he tried to keep from crying. It had killed Mickey to walk away from Ian. He'd wanted to go with him. So fucking bad, he wanted to go. But he couldn't. 

Mickey touched his lips, eyes finally closing as he thought back to the night before. Ian's warm breath on his mouth, his hand on his face, long fingers brushing into his hair. Fuck. It had been like a hundred dreams he'd had before, but real. And just like in all of his dreams, Ian had looked at Mickey exactly the fucking same he always had. Like Mickey was worthy, or some shit. Looked at him like he'd never stopped loving him. 

Mickey tucked his lips between his teeth, sucked on his bottom lip, letting it drag between his teeth. His body hungered for Ian's touch. He was  _ starved _ for it. Starved for the way Ian looked at him, touched him, whispered to him, held him. His skin prickled and shivered with that want; he took deep breaths, trying to calm his nerves. 

For so long, he had to shut off the softest parts of him. He had to shut off the part he allowed exposure to only one person. Then running into that person by chance, by a fucking weird fluke of fate… that part of him begged to be touched, begged to be unearthed. Mickey Milkovich doesn’t just get over Ian Gallagher. No. No matter how many fucking times he told himself to, no matter how many times he fucking lied to himself that he’d fallen out of love… that was the one thing he couldn’t lie to himself about. Not successfully. And then he saw Ian again. So close. A breath away. And just like that… 

“Shit,” Mickey breathed, getting off of the futon. 

He pulled his jeans on, a clean undershirt, his cut. Almost didn't put his cut on, but he especially needed it now; call it a security blanket or whatever, but it made him feel brave. Made him feel strong. 

He scrambled to get his boots onto his feet while he walked out of the guest room, not bothering to tie them up all the way. He had to go with his gut now, before he thought better of it, before he used what little common sense he had left and stayed where he was. There was a chance that it could blow up in his face, but it was a chance that he was fucking willing to take. So there was no time to pause and tie up his boots correctly, no time to give himself a moment to think. 

He was being reckless with his needs again. He was spinning out. 

But fuck it. He was already fucked for life, how much worse could it get?

Wind whipped into his face while he rode to Mandy’s, the only place he knew to go. He hadn’t been to her apartment yet, but she told him where it was, for whenever he wanted to drop by. His bike sang loudly under him, responding to his every move. He trusted his bike more than he trusted most people, and right now, as fast as he was going —he put his entire fucking life into her hands.

Mandy lived in one of those old U-shaped brick buildings, with the courtyard and the iron gates surrounding it. Nicest shit any Milkovich has ever lived in. Mickey took a minute to take in the sight before he went in, leaving his bike at a meter. 

The main lobby or entrance, whatever the fuck it was called, had a couple people milling around; the front desk was empty, phone ringing with no one to answer it. Mickey rolled his eyes, kept moving; took the elevator to Mandy’s floor.

An old lady that lived on Mandy’s floor gave Mickey an accusing look, wrinkled brow furrowed as she narrowed her eyes at him. Mickey almost flipped her off, but he had a feeling the old bat wouldn’t hesitate to hit him with her purse. So instead he found Mandy’s door, giving it a few hard knocks.

Seemed like the twenty minutes it took to get to where he was standing right now went by in a blink of an eye. And then Mandy was opening her door, looking both confused and a little pissed off —she had a sheet wrapped around her, and it didn’t seem like anything else, going of the state of her hair and smudged makeup. He'd interrupted a little classy mid-day fuck. Great.

“What are you doing here —what’s wrong?”

His good sense screamed at him to keep his mouth shut, to go back home. “Where’s Ian’s place?”

Mandy’s brows shot up, “Huh?”

“Babe?” A voice called from inside the apartment.

“I’ll be right back, it’s my brother,” Mandy called over her shoulder. 

Mickey didn’t have time for this, “Where does Ian live?”

“Wait,” Mandy shook her head, “ _ why _ ?”

“Is everything okay?” The voice from inside the apartment asked.

Mickey’s sister was getting flustered, by the looks of it, her head kept turning to look behind her as she was visibly processing what Mickey was saying.

“Fuck,” Mickey grunted, pulling Mandy out of her apartment by the arm, he called into her place, “You can get back to plowing my sister in a minute, everything’s  fine !”

“Oh my god!” Mandy hissed after Mickey shut the door behind her. “The hell is _wrong_ with you?”

“Where does Ian live?” Mickey repeated his question slowly. 

He didn’t have  _ time _ for all this shit, he had to do this now while he still had the fucking nerve, while he still had time. His body was jittery and on edge, nerves cracking under pressure. He had to do this _now_ , he had to find Ian _now_ , fucking  had to.

His sister, however, didn’t understand how urgent the situation was. She just looked at him like he’d grown another head, holding the sheet tightly to her body, “Are you kidding me?”

“Does it look like I’m fucking kidding?”

“No, it looks like you're fucking  _ tweaking _ !” She snapped back. 

Mickey ran a hand down his face, “I'm not tweak— fuck, Mandy come on, where the hell does he live now?”

Mandy frowned, “Why?”

She didn't know. Didn't know anything. All she knew was that he and Ian had been best friends one minute, and then the next they hadn't. Mickey reminded himself that, reminded himself that she couldn't know the truth because if she did… fuck, it wasn't like she was in much danger of Terry anymore. Not like she lived under his roof anymore or was even part of the club's scene.  

But everything would be different if Mandy knew. She'd ask questions that Mickey had no intention of answering. What happened in the past was just that, the past. And the less Mandy fucking knew, the better. The less  _ anybody _ knew, the better. 

“ _ Mickey _ ,” Mandy prompted; her tone was clipped, annoyed. “You’ve got me standing in the middle of the fucking hallway in a sheet! What the fuck is going on?”

“I just need to talk to him,” Mickey snapped. “Okay? I need to fucking talk to him about shit that’s none of your fucking business… so where does he live?”

Mandy ended up giving Mickey some less-than-stellar directions to where Ian lived, and she’d been real fucking bitchy about it, muttering under her breath about how tired she was of the two of them and their secrets. She’d given him the middle finger before slamming her apartment’s door in his face. 

Mickey almost felt bad about it, but there were eight million other things on his fucking plate, adding on guilt over keeping his little sister in the dark about his whole history with Ian would have to wait it’s fucking turn.

 

* * *

 

There were tens of thousands of knots in Mickey's stomach, in his back, in his shoulders. The sun was shining, the fucking birds were singing, the neighborhood was decent enough… and yet his insides were twisted up like a pretzel. He took a few deep breaths, but still the tension in his body bit into his muscle like a rabid dog. 

The Thai place that Ian lived above was busy with the lunch rush. Mickey caught his bottom lip between his teeth as he parked his bike, feeding a few quarters into the meter until he felt as if the time were sufficient. This false sense of optimism told him that he'd need the time; then the realistic voice scolded him because Ian walked off the night before without so much of a wave. There was a huge possibility that a second door would be slammed in his face today. 

But he let his legs lead him anyways. There was a door next to the restaurants door, lead to a small hallway, a set of stair, and before he knew it, he was standing in front of a peeling brown-ish gray-ish door. Maybe Ian wasn’t even here, it was the middle of the day on a fucking Friday, he could be at work… where did he work? Mickey didn’t know. Didn’t know what he did now. He didn't know... anything.

It felt like it wasn’t his hand that knocked, but it was. Heart in his fucking throat, beating fast and hard in his ears. What the fuck was he doing? What was the plan? Get fucked and leave —start something up with Ian again just to fucking leave? 

There was this little voice, deep in the back of Mickey’s mind:  _ maybe he would go with you _ . 

Ian had wanted to run away before. Had begged Mickey and Svetlana to run with him, to run as far as they could, never looking back, just  _ go _ . But that was six years ago, when they were just barely not-kids anymore but also still very much kids. And Mickey could never ask Ian that… right? To drop everything, his family who meant the fucking world to him… Ian couldn’t do that.

He was getting ahead of himself. Ian was probably with someone else now. Fuck, he probably wasn't even home. It was the middle of the fucking day, he was probably working.

Mickey shook his head, turning away from the door. What the fuck was he doing? He got three steps down when he heard a door open behind him. Frozen to the fucking spot, Mickey couldn’t breathe. His hand was curled painfully around the railing, not daring to turn around to see, but listening to those familiar careful steps. A hitched breath. Mickey clenched his jaw tight. What the fuck was he doing. He should’ve left it alone —left Ian  _ alone _ . Dragging Ian back into this shit, into his fucked up life, into his drama… how fucking selfish was he?

“Wait.”

And just like that, Mickey's shoulders fell, and he became the most selfish motherfucker on the planet. He took a deep breath, eyes fluttering closed when he felt a hand curl over the back of his shoulder, pressing into the leather of his cut. 

It's easier to focus on the physical. On the wanting. On the way his body ached from the touch, ached for more. His heart doesn't hurt so much when he focuses on the physical. When he shuts his mind down and just  _ feels _ ; it's so much easier to ignore the consequences of his future actions. 

Fuck everything else, fuck knowing he should keep walking down those stairs, leaving Ian in peace. Fuck what happens after. Ian had been ripped right out of his hands, out of his life, leaving him empty. And Jesus Christ, he so badly needed to be filled up again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH SHIT THE SAME MO'FUCKIN AIR BITCH YOU THOUGHT I WAS GONNA MAKE YOU WAIT FOREVER HUH
> 
> ;)
> 
> okay but like tbh I'm nervous about this chapter and every chapter following this, but currently particularly this chapter.   
> (but also lowkey theres this part of me that loves when Svet checks Mickey lmao idk)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The funniest thing about all this is that I have the first nine chapters already written. But, ya know, life and all that... lol
> 
> My motivation for anything has been in the tank lately. I think because of meds, but who the fuck knows anymore. BUT!! Enjoy the lords work in this chapter ;)

His whole body was shaking, from head to toe. Ian slid behind his steering wheel, glancing over at the motorcycle parked next to his car. Running away, just like a good Gallagher, Ian turned his car on and drove out of the baseball field’s parking lot. He gripped his steering wheel hard, gripped until his knuckles hurt.

“Oh my god,” Ian breathed. He breathed it over and over again.

(He should _not_ have been driving; he could feel the alcohol still lingering in his bloodstream, but he _had_ to go).

It had been so _much_ , waking up and seeing Mickey. Like a fucking fever dream, like it couldn’t be real. And then he touched Mickey, felt his breath against his mouth, and… and he knew it was real, knew he wasn’t dreaming again. It was so much. Too much. All his systems were firing _gogogogo_ , and then Mickey was called away from him, and Ian was left standing there not knowing how to function anymore. He had to go, had to get out of there otherwise he’d fucking break down. 

Six years worth of wanting and missing and pining over Mickey slammed into his body all at once, and Ian couldn't handle it. He couldn’t fucking breathe, so he had to go. He had to. If he had stayed, they would’ve fucked right there in the dugout like old times, and when it was over… god, it would’ve been too fucking hard. It would’ve been a disaster when it was over. They would’ve fucked hard and desperate, and then said goodbye, but it would’ve been a _real_ goodbye, and Ian couldn’t fucking handle that. Saying goodbye to Mickey again was something Ian couldn’t face, something he refused to face. Not again.

Once he was home, he locked his front door. Ran his hands through his hair, pacing up and down his hallway like a caged tiger. Felt like he did that for hours, whispering to himself to calm down. Lip’s voice echoed in his head. _Look at what happened the last time_. Ian had been so fucking angry that his brother said that, was still angry, but he couldn’t stop thinking about… what happened last time.

Ian didn’t want to put Mickey through that again, and he knew Mickey. Knew that Mickey didn’t want to put him through that either. Knew that the chance encounter would be the first and last, and any time they saw each other by chance again, they had to just keep fucking walking. Because Terry Milkovich’s reach was long, his rule over the club was merciless, and Mickey was inked forever into that club. _Look at what happened the last time_.

_Look at what happened the last time._

_Look at what happened the last time._

_Look at what happened the last time._

Ian shouted as he kicked the wall of his hallway. He then stomped his way towards his bedroom, towards his bathroom, avoiding the mirror as if his reflection would reach out and shake him. He stripped down, eyes stinging as he turned his shower on. He had to chill the fuck out. His body was pulled in a million different directions, and he kept tasting Mickey’s breath, feeling that warm puff of air against his lips. He’d been right fucking _there_ , a breath away, fully ready to _drown_ in Mickey and then… the club. 

It was always the club -was always going to _be_ the club. 

Ian had always known that, had accepted it. Mickey _loved_ the club; loved how it made him feel power over something, even though that same something took so much power away from him. It was complicated —more complicated than Ian could even begin to explain. But that was Mickey. Complicated. Contradictory. As much as Ian had known and accepted that it was always going to be the club, it still caught him up. Didn’t ease the slap.

The water was so hot, raining down on him. Ian shoved his head under the spray, letting it pour down his face, opening his mouth to let the water in and wash out the stale taste of nicotine and Colt 45. His muscles slowly relaxed under the heat; dipped his head down so the pulsing spray of water got the back of his neck, his shoulders. He took deep breaths, kept his eyes closed.

It was quiet in the small shower. Only the sound of pouring water. Ian licked his lips, braced his hands on the cold tile. His mind may have been racing at a hundred miles an hour, but his body felt like honey under the heat. Slow honey; sticky, rich honey dripping down his insides, filling his thighs, his gut, his chest. Instinct, all instinct. That’s what happened around Mickey, that’s what his body knew. What his body missed. Maybe that made Ian weak to lean into his more base desires beyond deep emotional ones at a time like this, he didn’t give a fuck.

Mickey had looked so fucking good. He always looked good, Ian had always thought he was beautiful, but he swore he looked even better now. Filled out a little more, no doubt biding his time in prison working out. 

But he was still soft under Ian’s hands. His moon skin soft like petals; always was. Ian never told Mickey that, never told him how soft to the touch he was. His Mickey is made out of razor wire and silk. His Mickey is made from velvet and stone. His Mickey is made of bullets and bits of raw cotton. He is soft and hard, the click of a padlock closing; soft breath on the side of his neck and a blade held under his chin. All in one.

God, the things Ian would do to Mickey now… with his own space, his own private bedroom… could taste every inch of Mickey’s soft skin, could touch him everywhere, have him all to himself all fucking night. That’s all he’d ever wanted. That’s all he ever craved back then. For it to just be them, and to hell with the rest of the world. Even for a night, even for a few fucking hours. He just had wanted to do it _right_. Just once.

“Stop,” he mouthed to himself.

Ian held his breath, shook his head at himself. Ian breathed out harshly, resting his forehead against the tile, letting the water fall down his back. He reached down to the hot and cold taps, turning the hot water off. He shivered as his honey body was blasted with cold.

 

* * *

 

It’s around ten in the morning when he gets a call from one of his co-workers, Jerry. 

“Hey, listen, I know you had a late shift today, but I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind if I took it instead? Trying to get in as many doubles as I can lately... saving up for the wedding, you know?”

Ian wants to tell him no, but Jerry’s a nice guy and Ian probably wouldn’t be that much use in a fucking ambulance right now, not when he’s so distracted. “Uh, yeah, that’s fine,” he tells Jerry.

And then it’s around noon when he gets a call from Mandy.

“Mickey’s coming to see you. He just left my place looking like a fucking tweaker,” she said. “I dunno what’s wrong with him, but… just giving you a heads up.”

Ian’s whole body feels like it’s collapsing. He’s standing in his kitchen, phone pressed to his ear, eyes trained on the cracked linoleum floor under his feet, and he’s repeated Mandy’s words in his head about a dozen or so times.

Finally, a weak, “What?”

She sighs heavy and impatient, and Ian knew it was because she was still being purposely and obviously kept out of the loop, and Ian knew Mandy well, knew she was past the end of her rope with patience. “He was just here banging on my fucking door, asking where you live. Should I have not told him?”

“It’s fine. I have to go,” Ian mumbled, blindly hanging up the phone.

He had to be dreaming, right? He had to be fucking dreaming. Last night had to be a dream. This right now had to be a dream. The call from _Jerry_ this morning had to be a dream. Everything had to be a fucking dream, because knowing that Mickey was on his way right this fucking second, and Ian not only had the rest of the day to himself but the entire fucking weekend… no. The universe doesn’t just _give_ like this, the universe doesn’t throw bones like this, doesn’t make shit easy like this.

He couldn’t… process this. His mind told him he had to move, but his body stayed exactly where it stood in the kitchen. He should be straightening up his apartment, should be throwing dirty dishes in the dishwasher, throwing dirty clothes in the hamper. Fuck, at the _very_ fucking least he should be taking a peek inside his nightstand to make sure he had a fucking condom. Ian wasn’t stupid. He knew that if Mikey made it inside his apartment, all bets were fucking off. It had been six years, for fucks sake. Six years and if last night was any indication, his body still hummed and yearned for the brunette’s touch.

Mandy lived about fifteen minutes away from Ian, and Ian only found out he’d been standing right where he was for those fifteen minutes because the next thing he knew there was a tentative knock on his door. Mickey didn’t knock like that normally, but Ian knew it was him.

His insides warmed and dropped and rose to his throat all at once. Ian swallowed hard, walking into his hallway, staring at his door.

This is exactly what he’d wanted, but was convinced he wouldn’t get. No fucking trying to deny that, this is all he’d wanted since learning that Mickey was out in the world again. There was no reason to fear Mickey, no reason to hesitate, but Ian was fucking scared. This was a disaster waiting to happen. Truly. A stronger man would open the door and tell Mickey that they had to stay away from each other. 

But Ian is not that man.

He's never fucking been that man. 

By the time he opened his door, Mickey was on the stairs, walking away. Then Mickey stopped, hearing Ian open the door. Ian stopped for a second too, just staring at the back of Mickey’s head. His dark hair, that leather cut that hung on him. The now off-white lettering of the patches… he came to Ian in his cut, and without fail, Ian’s mouth watered.

“Wait,” he said, watching Mickey’s shoulders fall to rest.

Ian moved, reached, curled his hand over the back of Mickey’s shoulder, aching to touch him again. He sighed softly at the feel of the leather, running his fingers over the softened texture, sliding his hand to the back of Mickey’s head. His hair, soft as silk. Mickey leaned his head back into the touch, sighed. Ian felt his heart beating wildly against his chest.

“Wait,” Ian said again, softer this time, barely said. 

He stepped down to the step below Mickey, coming to face him finally, eye to eye now. And they just stared at each other. Both of them wide-eyed, lips parted, tense as fuck. Ian’s stomach swarmed with butterflies, nerves shuddered with nostalgia and want. Mickey wet his lips, and Ian’s eyes flicked down to the brunette’s full mouth.

Oddly, it felt like back in the day when Mickey first got home. They’d meet up somewhere, just staring at each other before they pounced. Ian’s seventeen years old, and his boyfriend just got back from doing five months. He’s seventeen years old, and five months felt like five years without him; without his smell, his mouth, his laugh, his body.

“You left,” Mickey finally says, and Ian basks in the sound of his voice for a moment. Sends a pool of warmth right to his gut. He missed Mickey's voice so fucking much.

“Yeah,” is all Ian can manage. He shakes his head, wanting to say sorry; he can’t speak right now, the words aren’t fucking working. But his hand raises, eyes flicking down to look at the chain hanging around Mickey’s neck. Ian touches it, his fingers gently tugging at the gold; muscle memory.

Mickey’s breathing slow, but deep, his blue eyes locked on Ian’s. Ian’s always thought that the other man could see right down to his soul, could see past all his bullshit. Mickey fucking knew him, inside and out. Which, if had been any other person in the world, that would have terrified Ian to death. But not with Mickey.

“C’mere,” Mickey reaches for him, grabbing his shirt, pulling him forward.

There’s not time to rethink, or hesitate. Ian doesn’t want that extra time, rejects the very notion of hesitation. Mickey is kissing him, and that’s all that matters. It’s all he gives a damn about. 

Ian melts. It’s instant, and hot and his knees almost give out on him. Mickey licks into his mouth, and he refuses to deny entrance. Ian surrenders whole-fucking-heartedly, breathing heavy against the brunette’s mouth. Mickey tastes like cigarettes and faint whiskey. Tastes warm. Those familiar flavors, that Mickey flavor, makes Ian moan, makes him shiver.

“Fuck,” Mickey gasps into his mouth. His hands are warm against Ian’s face, sliding down to his neck, curling in his shirt, pulling him closer. “Fuck, c’mere,” Mickey says, even though there is no more room to spare. 

Ian starts pushing Mickey backwards up the stairs while his hands slide up the front of Mickey’s cut, scratching dull fingernails against leather, against the worn patches. He keeps pushing, keeps walking Mickey back, hands sliding further down, fingers resting on his belt buckle.

“Now,” Mickey’s voice is all hoarse, all strung out. That voice that made a shiver go up Ian’s spine. “C’mon, now.” 

To anyone else, it would’ve sounded like Mickey was out of his fucking mind high, but Ian knows that voice. Knows what the trembling hands mean, the eagerness, the impatience. Mickey’s not high, like Mandy thought. Ian’s only seen him like this a handful of times, because Mickey’s only _allowed_ him see this side of him a handful of times. 

This is Mickey’s unadulterated, vulnerable, skin-crawling _need_ to be free, need to break down his walls and drop everything else, because he just needs to fucking _be_. 

“Inside,” Ian whispered, finally getting Mickey to his door. He pushed him against the frame, wedging his leg between Mickey’s, pressing against him. Ian held Mickey on either side of his neck, getting a good look at him, slowing it down while Mickey breathed deep.

They just looked at each other again. So fucking close. Mickey’s hands come up and wrap around Ian’s wrists, but they don’t move him, just hold him. Anchoring him there. Everything all goes quiet, and slow, and Ian is honey again. He closes the space between them and kisses Mickey soft. The air changes then, just like that. 

Mickey sighs into the kiss, body relaxing as he lets Ian in to taste his mouth again. Slick and soft, they stay there for god-knows-how-long, and who fucking cares. Ian keeps Mickey there in the doorway. Just kissing him, holding him, savoring every single second of this because he doesn’t know if he’ll ever… 

Ian breaks the kiss off, pressing his forehead against Mickey’s, hands moving to Mickey’s hips. His body is wound up tight, humming, aching. He’s so fucking hard, and his insides feel like absolute honey —all the while Ian’s feeling so fucking much. It’s hard to only focus on the physical, when his heart is feeling so _full_ and _whole_ again.

Mickey’s breathing against his mouth, hands almost petting the sides of his neck. It’s like a silent conversation. Ian sniffs; eyes stinging. Mickey cups his cheek, thumb rubbing against his skin.

And then, “Tell me if you want me to go,” Mickey whispers. Another swipe of his thumb against Ian’s cheek —he doesn’t want to hurt Ian.

“Not yet,” Ian says. He looks at Mickey. Mickey’s eyes are glassy; Ian’s heart hurts. He wants to do this right. He needs to do this right, even if it’s for the last time.

They were never afforded closure. Not once. 

Mickey looks like there’s a million things he wants to say, but instead he just nods, “A real goodbye this time, huh?”

It feels like a punch to the gut. Ian frowns at the brunette, “Fuck you.” He’ll never tell Mickey goodbye. Fucking never.

That earns a lopsided grin from the other man, easing the tension like only Mickey could, “Missed that sailor mouth, Gallagher.”

Couldn’t help but give Mickey a slow smirk, dropping hand to reach around the brunette, get a handful of ass. Ian breathed a laugh as he ghosted his lips across Mickey’s, “Yeah?”

“Fuck yeah,” Mickey breathed back as he arched against him, pressing close, arms wrapping around Ian’s neck. “You gonna get on me or what?”

Ian’s stomach fluttered as he dragged Mickey into his apartment; he slammed and locked the door behind him, shutting out the rest of the world. They melt into each other again, time slowing down as they kiss hard, pressing each other against the hallway walls. It feels like a dream again, like this can’t actually _really_ be happening. Six years. Seventy two months without him like this, without his mouth, his touch, his voice talking low.

It’s so easy to get caught up, and Ian does. He pushes Mickey’s cut off of his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor, leaving Mickey just _Mickey_ , and Ian has to stop and look at him, breath caught in his throat. He really doesn’t want to get all emotional right now, he’s trying his fucking hardest to focus on the physical because he fucking wants Mickey so bad, but it’s fucking _Mickey_ , and—

“Ian,” the brunette says soft, like he knows. Because he _does_ know. Of course he knows. Mickey’s reaching for him again, “C’mon,” he says, putting them back on track. 

He _knows_ Ian, and knows that once Ian starts spiraling down that path, then both of them are going to break. Ian had shut the door, blocking out the rest of reality and for right now, it’s what they need. To just be without reality. So Mickey pulls Ian close again and kisses him, and grabs at his shirt, easing him back on track, back to the physical. Back to something they can control.

“Yeah,” Mickey breathes between kisses. “C’mon,” his voice coaxes, it soothes, it leads Ian. “Yeah,” he breathes again.

It’s in Mickey’s kiss, in his breath. _Forget everything else. Just focus on me. On us._

By the time they get to Ian’s bedroom, both of their shirts have been thrown to the floor, along with Mickey’s boots, both of their pairs of socks, and two belts. Mickey’s skin is so warm under Ian’s hands. He touches everywhere, sliding up his sides and chest while Mickey does much of the same to him. Ian sighs and shudders under Mickey’s touch, leaning heavily into it.

On the bed, they fall together, Ian covering Mickey’s body with his own. Sunlight streams in from his window, little particles of dust swirling in the beams of light that was lighting up Mickey’s blue eyes and his moon skin. 

Ian looks down at the brunette, grinning slow when tattooed hands frame his face. He presses a soft kiss to Mickey’s swollen lips, slipping his tongue inside, tasting him again. Can’t get enough of that taste; wants to taste him everywhere, fucking consume him until that Mickey flavor is imprinted onto his tongue.

Something happens to Mickey, and Ian wants to fucking sing about it. With a soft moan, his hands fall from Ian’s face arms relaxing on either side of his head, legs falling from around Ian’s hips, just lying there in a fucking puddle, kissing him back. Like he lost all the tension in his body and gave the fuck up for Ian, taking it, taking all of it.

Ian rests on one arm, holding himself up above Mickey as he kisses him slow and deep, pressing against his hip, seeking some relief. He drags his free hand down Mickey's bare chest, down his abdomen to the front of his jeans. Mickey is hard, straining against the denim, and Ian cups him, pressing gently, pulling a broken moan from the other man. 

“Stay still,” Ian whispers when the other man’s hips press upwards. 

He moves his lips and tongue to Mickey’s neck, hand pressing more against his jeans, rubbing at him. He wanted to take care of his Mickey, make him feel good, make him leave his fucking body. It’s been six years, and Ian’s learned a lot. There’s something in him that wants to really _impress_ Mickey, wants to show off. Mickey had always loved Ian’s body, what he could do… but six years is a long time, and in the back of his mind, on repeat, is a soft _lay him the fuck out_. They earned it.

“Fuck,” Mickey breathes, all drawn out and desperate. 

Ian moves over Mickey, trailing slow kisses across his chest, moving down. He drags his tongue over one nipple; Mickey arches into him, hands coming to sink into Ian’s hair. Ian’s whole body reacts to the touch, shiver across his skin, from head to toe. He is fully honey now, and so is Mickey. They move slow together. Touching and tasting, not needing words, only hands and lips. Ian tugs Mickey’s jeans down his legs. Mickey lifts his hips to help guide them off of his body in time for Ian to grab for his boxers. 

His mouth waters, one hand wrapping around Mickey's erection, the other gently pushing one of Mickey’s legs out, giving himself room. He looks up at the brunette, mouth dropping to press against the junction between thigh and pelvis. Mickey’s eyes roll, head falling back against the pillow; he whines low, breath ragged, almost painful. Ian moans as he tastes Mickey’s flesh, tongue pressing while his hand moves slow up and down Mickey’s cock.

“God _damn_ , Gallagher,” Mickey pants like he’s run a marathon. He reaches for Ian’s hair, tugging gently. 

Ian buries his face in that junction in return, this time digging his teeth against the soft flesh. Mickey’s hips jerk while he sucks in a sharp gasp, pulling harder on Ian’s hair. Had a feeling the brunette would like that. Ian does it again, and then again, hand still squeezing and moving slow along Mickey’s cock, until the other man is reduced to soft moans and weakened legs, back to complete surrender.

“Like that?” Ian grinned, going in again.

Mickey’s leg moved out more, giving Ian more room as he breathed a lazy, “Yeah.”

Then Ian shifted, moving, pressing the tip of Mickey’s cock to his lips before pulling him in slow, listening to the soft whispers floating in the air, soft curses. Ian’s eyes fluttered closed as he tasted Mickey’s soft, warm flesh. He’d always loved having Mickey inside his mouth, that slide between his lips, the soft hair pressing against his nose when he took him fully inside.

Fingers tugged and glided through Ian’s hair. He moaned around Mickey; Mickey moaned back. Ian reached up with one hand fingers slipping over one of Mickey’s nipples while he took him deep again, swallowing around him. When he pinched the nipple between his fingers, Mickey’s hips bucked up, thrusting deeper into his mouth, hitting the back of his throat. So Ian did it again, his own hips rocking down against his mattress, easing the ache in his own throbbing erection.

“Jesus… ” Mickey slurred, a hand wrapping around Ian’s wrist, his other still tangled in Ian’s hair as his hips rocked, fucking up into his mouth. With one hand occupied in teasing at Mickey’s nipple, and the other arm wrapped under Mickey’s leg, grabbing his hip, the two of them were tangled up in each other, movements tight but yet still fluid, moving together. “Christ _—fuck_ ,” he whispered.

Ian moaned low as he swallowed Mickey down to the hilt, clamping down hard on his nipple. Mickey arched, a breathless noise spilling from his lips, hips stilling as he kept his back arched. Both hands were back in Ian’s hair, pulling tightly. Ian shivered, moaning around Mickey again, working him with pressure.

Before the brunette had a chance for release, Ian eased his mouth off of him, going for the opposite junction between thigh and pelvis than he'd already had his mouth on. Mickey's legs were like jelly in his hands, easy to move and manipulate. Mickey was breathing so fucking hard above him, hands falling from Ian's hair to cup his balls and soaked cock. Ian growled against Mickey's skin, pressing teeth and tongue and lips to the sensitive flesh. 

“Ah, _fuck_ ,” Mickey slurred mindlessly. Ian grinned, moving his hands around to the back of Mickey’s thighs, pushing his legs up. A fucked-out, “oh my god…” told Ian he was absolutely on the right track.

Ian had never done this for Mickey before. Ever. Thought about it, back in the day, but they never had the time, the space —the privacy. Also, the thought of sixteen year old Ian telling seventeen year old Mickey he wanted to put his tongue up his ass… he didn't want to think about how fucking clumsy and awkward he would have been. 

Now though… Ian's got this. There's no awkwardness or clumsiness. Ian knows what he's doing; he dipped his head down, silencing Mickey when he held him in place, holding him open to drag his tongue across Mickey’s tight ring of nerves. 

Mickey was putty in Ian’s hands, a mess of slurring noises and limp limbs. Ian breathed hard against him, pressing and prodding with his tongue, holding Mickey tight, holding him still as he lapped at his hole. He dragged thick stripes up Mickey’s perineum to his balls, then back down, making him shiver and keen softly, and Ian couldn’t help but smile as he dropped kisses to the back of Mickey’s soft thighs, letting his legs down again. 

Ian gave him a wicked smirk, brushing his nose against Mickey’s. He pressed himself against Mickey’s bare body, still confined in his jeans, but seeking all the friction he could. There’d probably be a big fucking wet spot in the front of his boxers. Ian shuddered from the pressure, pushing against him again, hips rolling for release. Mickey wrapped his arms around him tightly as he grunted from the movements, clinging to him as they pressed their foreheads together.

In his head, Ian begged Mickey not to let go. In his head he drifted a little bit a ways from the physical. Mickey kissed him hard and hungry, sucking on his lips, legs wrapping around his hips, heels pressing into the back of his thighs. Ian clung right back, hips still rocking, his cock so fucking hard it hurt, confined behind denim and cotton.

“C’mon,” Mickey grunted. He reached down, fingers pushing at Ian’s jeans, slipping back to that desperation, that junky-like need. “Get these the fuck off, c’mon.”

Somehow Ian got his jeans off along with his boxers, but he has no idea how. They were rough and needy, clawing at each other, kissing and biting and grunting. Ian felt this pulling deep down in his gut, this fire and flutter, desperation not letting up. 

And the _noises_ Mickey made, soft and low, with shaking hands and a red-rimmed mouth from Ian’s scruff. Fuck, those noises. Ian needed more of those, needed more and louder and more desperate, just… more. Couldn’t get enough of Mickey. Could never get enough. How did he go this fucking long without him? How was he supposed to go the rest of his life…

Mickey shoved his hand between them, wrapped his fingers around Ian’s cock, and the world fucking stopped. His thoughts stopped. Everything fucking stopped. Ian dropped his head into the crook of Mickey’s neck and let out a low moan, hips moving with Mickey’s slow stroke.

“Fuck,” Ian breathed, pressing his mouth against Mickey’s neck. He screwed his eyes shut tight and shuddered, feeling his body hum and ache everywhere from the simple touch. “Fuck, Mick.”

“This fucking cock,” Mickey murmured, and Ian could hear the filthy grin in his voice. Ian felt heat bleed down his back, up his cheeks; Mickey rubbed his thumb over the tip, sliding in the slick there. 

Couldn’t take it anymore. Ian reached for a condom (bless) and lube in his nightstand, taking Mickey’s hand off of him so he could maneuver and situate them to get to Mickey’s ass. He lubed his fingers up and got to work while he kissed Mickey hard —hard and claiming, making the brunette whine from both his kiss and the finger pressing into him.

After he was ready (and all but begging for it, needy voice breathing _c’mon_ over and over, legs shaking on either side of Ian), Ian finally, _fucking finally_ , pressed inside of Mickey. He took his time, sinking in tight heat inch by inch, while Mickey had his arms wrapped around him tightly, clinging to him just about as hard as he was breathing.

“Jesus Christ,” Mickey gasped. “Fuck… fuck, Ian.”

He felt so fucking good. Better than ever before, Ian swore. Being buried inside of Mickey like this was better this way, being held and kissed and breathed against. So fucking close, seeing blue eyes widen, seeing the way Mickey’s brows creased when he finally settled fully inside of him. Ian knew he wasn’t going to last long. Mickey was so fucking tight but fit so beautifully around him like he always had, so fucking right. 

Mickey’s legs hitched higher up on Ian’s waist as Ian fucked into him deep and slow. He wrapped one arm around Mickey, pulling him up, flush against his torso, the other supporting his weight. They kissed hard, full of raw groans and heavy breath; Mickey’s limbs clamped down around Ian everywhere, dull fingernails digging into his back, his shoulders. 

The bed creaked with every thrust, headboard knocking against the wall, springs in the mattress whining under them. Sunlight was still pouring into Ian’s window and neither one of them gave a fuck that the curtains weren’t closed, and that it was the middle of the fucking day.

They were heat and sweat, barely giving each other enough room to move, barely enough room to breathe. Ian ripped his mouth away from Mickey’s, going for his throat, biting and sucking and making the brunette shiver. It was so much. Too much. Mickey felt so fucking good, waves of pleasure washing over Ian every time he pushed his hips forward, every time Mickey let out a rough noise, urging him on.

When Mickey grabbed a handful of the back of Ian’s hair and pressed his lips against his ear, speaking low and rough through his teeth, “So fucking good —fucking me so good— right there,” it was hard to keep composure.

“Fuck,” Ian punched out, hand sliding down Mickey’s back, grabbing a handful of ass. His thrusts became more desperate, harder, faster. “Fuck!”

One of Mickey’s hands wedged between them, wrapping around himself, his other hand still holding the back of Ian’s hair. “C’mon,” he breathes, voice so fucked-out, barely recognizable. Ian sees what Mickey’s doing, edging him on. “C’mon,” Mickey says again. “W-where the fuck you at, Gallagher, _c’mon_.”

Ian forces his eyes to stay open, looking directly into Mickey’s blue. His pupils are so blown out, eyes glassy and intense. He pushes faster, pulling his hand off of Mickey’s ass to wrap around the brunette’s throat; Mickey’s eyes instantly roll back, a snarled grin pulling up one side of his mouth. 

“Look at me,” Ian growls, hungrily taking Mickey’s bait.

Mickey wanted to be free. Ian couldn't deny him.

It gets Mickey to open his eyes again and look at him with this _heat_ that Ian hasn’t seen in six years, like he would follow him into fucking hell if Ian asked him to, and it’s so fucking good. So fucking hot. 

They fall back into this like second nature. Because it was. 

Ian’s got a fucked-up part inside of him that wants this moment _ingrained_ into Mickey’s head forever. Wants him to think about it every time he gets himself off, every time he sees something that reminds him of Ian. It’s this desperate part of Ian that doesn’t want Mickey to forget him. Or what they had. Or what Ian could do to him. This fucked-up, immature part of him that wants to ruin anyone else for Mickey. It’s selfish and unfair, he knows. He _knows_.

Thing is though… this was how they were. Because Ian sees the exact shit in Mickey’s eyes. Watches full lips curl into a feral smile, watches him bite on the bottom one. “Do it,” he pants heavy, between moans. “Say it —c’mon, fuck, Ian, c’mon. Don’t be a bitch.”

Little by little, Ian tightens his hold on Mickey’s throat. Both of their mouths drop open. Ian can’t stop the words from falling out of his mouth —probably wouldn’t if he could. It’s not fair, even though they both want it more than fucking _anything_ right now. Not fair at all, but he can’t stop the words. Doesn’t _want_ to stop the words.

“Please,” Mickey mouths. His eyes are glassy with need. “Please.”

“Eyes on me,” he breathes. Mickey does, all wide and at attention, grin still in place. “Eyes on me when I fuck you.”

Mickey’s hand furiously works his cock, shaking under him, “Ian…”

Mickey wants to be free.

“Fucking _mine_ ,” Ian tells him. Hasn’t said it in years, not to Mickey, not to anyone else. Those words didn’t belong to anyone else. But they roll off his tongue as easily as his own name. Mickey’s eyes almost slip closed; he visibly soaks the words in, and Ian can’t even begin to describe how fucking beautiful it is. 

Ian keeps his voice low, like he was sharing a secret. He easily falls back in line with their words that they discovered were _always_ theirs all those years ago. “No one’s ever gonna know you like me, are they —never gonna fill you up like me —never gonna make you let go like me. Fucking love that, don’t you? Love being mine.”

It’s like those six years never happened, like they picked up right where they left off. Ian didn’t have to think about the words, they spilled right out.

“Fuuuck,” Mickey whines, eyes rolling again, then slurs. “S’good, s’ _fucking_ good.”

“Don’t you?” Ian prompts, holding deep inside Mickey. He buries his face into the side of Mickey’s neck, tasting his damp skin. “You’re fucking mine, and that gets you off. Tell me.”

Mickey’s hips twitch as he fidgets, trying to get back into rhythm, “Yes,” he gasps. 

Ian bites at his neck, “You’re mine.”

“Yes,” Mickey whispered. “Again.”

“You’re mine,” Ian repeated, a flutter in his gut. “Always mine.”

Mickey caught Ian’s mouth in a hard kiss, tongue invading, before he rasped through a filthy smile, “Now make me come, bitch.”

Ian smirked, sitting back on his heels. They move quick. Ian pulls out of Mickey, grabbing his hips, urging him to flip over to his hands and knees. He spread Mickey’s legs out further —face down ass up; so fucking ready for more. Ian wet his lips, grabbing Mickey’s ass, opening him up to sink back into his tight body. Mickey shivered. Ian’s breath caught in his throat as he pushed at the small of Mickey’s back, getting him to arch for him. 

“Put that ass up like you know what you’re doing. C’mon,” Ian murmured, driving deep and slow. He moved his hands to grab Mickey’s ass again, kneading while he watched where the two of them were connected. 

Mickey sucked on his teeth, “Gimme a fucking reason…” he trailed off with a groan. 

Ian bit his lip while he grinned, pushing harder. “God, I love this fucking ass,” he grabbed a handful of Mickey’s hair, pulling his head back as he fucked into him hard. “Takes me so good. Fucking made for me, huh?”

Mickey was making disjointed punching whines every time Ian pushed into him. “Fuh-uh-uh-k,” he gasped. Ian yanked his head back a little, and Mickey responded immediately, “Fuck — _fuck_ right there!”

When Mickey was seventeen, he was inked into the club _—officially_. Branded just like his brothers, a copy of what his leather cut had patched was etched into Mickey’s back. The large blackened letters arched on top from shoulder to shoulder, IRON EAGLES; arched to frame out the bottom of the piece, above the small of his back, SOUTH SIDE. And of course, the eagle in the center of it all. The bird was huge and detailed, and screaming, sharp talons with intense eyes, looking like it was swooping down to fetch it’s prey.

Ian let go of the back of Mickey’s hair, dragging his hand down his spine, over the tattoo. The sound of flesh slamming against flesh, of Mickey’s surrendering noises, of Ian’s soft curses and heavy grunts, filled the room. Almost there. His body pulsed with every thrust, begging for release. Begging to reclaim Mickey.

“Gonna…” Mickey gasped. “Fuck, Ian, m’gonna…”

Ian grabbed Mickey’s shoulder, pulling him until Mickey’s shoulders were pressed against Ian’s sweaty chest. He pistons up into Mickey, arm wrapped around Mickey’s arms and chest, holding him still. He dropped his mouth to Mickey’s ear, breathing and moaning against him.

“Come for me,” Ian whispered. Fuck, he was going to too. Fuck, he was right there.

Mickey reached back with one hand, grabbing a fistful of Ian’s hair, “Fuck!”

Ian moves his hand to wrap around Mickey’s throat once more, other hand knocking Mickey’s hand away from around his cock, replacing it, stroking tight and quick while Mickey let both arms fall. Despite how boneless his arms are, Mickey is taking deep, gasping breaths like his life depends on it.

“Mine,” Ian whispers rough against Mickey’s ear. “Every fucking part.”

Mickey lets out a rough noise as he tenses, “All yours —fuck, I’m gonna… I’m…”

“Always mine,” Ian says. He sees stars, swears he fucking sees them. He chokes Mickey tighter right after the brunette takes one last deep breath. “Come for me, baby, fucking show me you’re mine.” 

Like a hairpin trigger, Mickey tenses up tight like a rubberband, then snaps, legs shaking and almost losing balance, so Ian pulls him closer, tighter. He takes his hand away from Mickey’s throat. Mickey gasps for air, he curses loud as he comes with shivering, jerking hips, covering Ian’s hand. And then he falls forward to his hands, then more to his elbows. 

Ian lets him, grabbing at his hips instead, pushing into him a few more times before he gives into the need that’s been pulling on him. Falls off that edge quickly. Falls off the edge with a painful gasp, seeing stars while he comes. Mickey shivers, pushing back against him while Ian gently thrusts through his orgasm, before easing out and tossing the abused condom in the wastebasket by his bed.

And then they fall together on the bed, a pile of limbs tangled up in the sheets. Ian’s still catching his breath as he looks over at Mickey, who is doing the same. His bedroom smells like sex. Smells like Mickey. Ian closes his eyes, blindly and silently reaching for the brunette, pulling him close. 

They could deal with what they did later. Right now, Ian was fucking exhausted, and the way Mickey just let him pull him close and curled up with him with no fight whatsoever told Ian that Mickey was just as fucking wiped out. 

Ian kissed the back of Mickey’s shoulder before pulling the sheets up over them. Words on the tip of his tongue, he swallowed them back down. Later. 

By the feel of Mickey’s steady, slow breathing, he was already passed out. Ian closed his eyes, smiling to himself, pushing down the stinging eyes and the urge to wake Mickey up to tell him everything he needed to tell him, to say everything he wasn’t supposed to say.

Ian’s stinging eyes watered as he pressed his nose and mouth between the back of Mickey’s shoulders, inhaling his scent. “I love you,” he silently mouthed. 

Then he pushed it back down again, because after they woke up… after they woke up… fuck. His body took over, telling him to sleep, though he didn’t want to. 

 

* * *

 

Ian wakes up to the feel of something warm brushing over the side of his face. When he opens his eyes, Mickey’s there. Just a few inches away from his face, blue eyes soft but focused. Ian brings his hand up to cover the brunette’s, pressing his hand more into his cheek, seeking his warmth, his touch.

Blue meets his green and doesn’t look away. He’s afraid that if he looks away, then looks back, Mickey won’t be there anymore. Like he’ll dissipate into the air, he’ll melt away into the bedding. So Ian keeps looking at Mickey, studying his face, seeing what has changed the last six years. Not much. Not much at all, but at the same time, maturity has touched his features in the subtlest of ways. Still fucking beautiful.

_Watching the girl hang all over Mickey makes Ian’s blood boil. He grips his beer bottle hard, staring from across the common room of the club. Mickey’s got his hand gripping this skank’s ass, pulling her right up against his side, and it makes Ian fucking sick._

_A hand gently touches his shoulder, distracting Ian for just a second; Svetlana’s looking at him with an arched brow, a knowing point in her eye. He’s staring hard, and needs to calm down before he makes a scene. She knows. She knows everything. Ian nods at her, but his eyes are traitorous and land right back to where they were before._

_Arms wrap around his shoulders, soft voice next to his ear, “You know he hates it,” Svetlana says. “He has to.”_

_Ian nods again, letting his friend guide him away, guide him over to a billiard table where Mickey’s brothers are playing a round. He half focuses on the conversation, nodding when he feels he has to, taking a blunt when it is offered. Can’t help but keep looking over at Mickey and the girl. Ian’s seventeen, and his boyfriend has to fuck girls in order to survive._

_It’s always been like this. Always. Ian knew exactly what he was walking into, there was no room for his anger… his jealousy. Those tattooed hands didn’t belong on that girl._

_“Ian,” Svetlana’s voice is soft, but scolding. Ian’s feet carry him before he can stop them, before he registers that he’s even moving._

_He doesn’t care though, doesn’t care when Mickey gives him a hard glare, doesn’t care when he casually leans down next to Mickey’s ear, “Can I talk to you for a second?”_

_“Kinda busy,” Mickey grits through his teeth._

_Ian glances at the girl in Mickey’s lap (a fucking Courtney Love ripoff, glassy eyes and all), then back to his boyfriend, giving him one last look before he headed back to the back hall. He knew Mickey would follow. Ian didn’t have a plan beyond going into Mickey’s room and waiting for the (undoubtedly) fuming brunette._

_He is —fuming. Mickey yanks the door open barely thirty seconds after Ian is in there, his brows drawn up tight, blue eyes fucking blazing. He slams the door behind him, locking it, “The fuck are you trying to pull right now?”_

_Ian points over Mickey’s shoulder, “I can’t do this shit —can’t watch these whores climb all over your dick.”_

_Mickey takes a deep breath, “Ian, I don’t have a fucking choice, you know—”_

_“Yeah,” Ian snaps. “Yeah I fucking know.”_

_They stare at each other, a million words unsaid, shoulders tense and breath forced. Ian shakes his head. He knew exactly what he was fucking walking into. He grew up with Mickey, grew up around the club. He knew the position that his boyfriend was in._

_But Ian’s seventeen, and all he wants his his fucking boyfriend all to himself. He’s seventeen, and Mickey’s beautiful. He’s seventeen, and logic doesn’t always win._

_So he pushes Mickey. Pushes him right against the door, kisses him hard. At first, he swears that Mickey is going to push him off since they’re literally less than fifty feet away from the entire club. But Mickey doesn’t push him away, he pulls him in, grabbing at his shirt, he turns them quickly, pushing Ian against the door instead._

_Mickey tastes like beer. Ian lets his mouth be invaded, moaning softly into Mickey’s mouth. His whole body shivers, fingers sliding up the front of Mickey’s leather cut, up his neck, into dark hair._

_Ian breaks the kiss to breathe; their foreheads press tightly together, breath heavy between them. He doesn’t let go of Mickey; “M’sorry,” Ian whispers._

_“Stop,” Mickey whispers back. Stop saying sorry, stop apologizing, stop thinking._

_He kisses Ian again, not so hard this time, and Ian feels his insides melt from the softness of it. The way Mickey’s hands rest so fucking lovingly on his cheeks, the way his lashes ghost against Ian’s when he blinks between kisses. Mickey kisses him over and over. No words. They're together for longer than they should be, holed up in that room, but it doesn't matter._

_Ian doesn’t know how much time passes, and he doesn’t care. Mickey’s kissing him soft and breathing hot against his mouth. His body tightens from the intimacy, from every unsaid word between them. He knows he can’t have him, but he wants him. Here. Now._

_“M’not hers,” Mickey says._

_It takes Ian a second to process what he heard, takes a second to process that Mickey’s sinking to his knees in front of him —in the room that they’re in, in the building that they’re in. Ian can’t process any fucking thing right now._

_“What?” Ian stupidly asks, watching tattooed fingers pluck at his belt._

_Mickey looks up at him, and he’s never been more open-faced, honest in his life, “Said I’m not hers.”_

_Ian shakes his head, mesmerized by Mickey’s movements, by the way he gently tugs at his jeans, pulling them down. “I… what? I don’t know what—”_

_Mickey looks up at him, a brow twitching upward, “You know.”_

_He does. He just thought it was his own selfishness, his own possessiveness._

_Ian gasps as Mickey takes him in his hand. He is impossibly hard, “Are you… uh, fuck,” he hisses, trying to keep his fucking cool when Mickey looks up at him, stroking him. “You sure you wanna… do this here? Fuck.”_

_Mickey ignores his question, “Say it.”_

_“Say what?” Ian breathes._

_“You know,” Mickey says. Then adds, “Should know.”_

_Ian reaches down, brushing his fingers through Mickey’s hair, watching his boyfriend press his lips to the tip of his cock. His breath is hot against his sensitive flesh, and it makes Ian shudder, makes him lean heavily back against the door._

_He looks down at Mickey, mouth moving on it’s own, he whispers to him for the first time, “You’re mine?”_

_“Yeah,” Mickey breathes, eyes looking back up at him while he draws Ian in._

_Ian fumbles for words, brain short circuiting from how good Mickey feels around him. He is wound so tightly, and Mickey's tongue and lips coax him to unravel. Ian nods, brushing his fingers through dark hair, watching Mickey take him with his mouth; he loves this sight._

_More sure this time, Ian says, “You're mine.” Mickey moans around him, pauses for just a second, takes him harder. Ian's leg trembles under him, his brain full of static. He whispers, “Show me.”_

_And Mickey, blue eyes heavy as he gazes up at Ian, does exactly that._

He keeps his voice soft, afraid to disrupt the silence too much, like it’s fragile and will shatter around them, “What time is it?”

“Almost two,” Mickey whispers back.

Dread pulls at Ian’s gut. He chews on his bottom lip, taking a deep breath, “You gotta go?”

But Mickey gives him a soft smile, his thumb brushing over the top of Ian’s cheek, and it’s the single most amazing feeling Ian’s ever experienced, “No, not yet.”

He tries to push down the lift in his chest, tries not to smile too big or get too excited. Tries to stay on the ground. He turns his head and kisses Mickey’s palm before putting his hand back on his cheek, “Sure?”

“Yeah,” Mickey breathed, scooting closer, tangling their legs together. He slid his hand to cup the back of Ian’s head, threading fingers through his hair. Felt so good, Then he pressed their foreheads together, and Ian couldn’t keep his eyes open. He forgot how Mickey made him feel so fucking _safe_. “Yeah, don’t have to leave yet.”

Ian wrapped his arm around Mickey’s middle, pulling him closer, bodies flush together, “Feel good.”

“You too,” Mickey said so soft that Ian barely heard. “Missed you.”

His heart hurts; he keeps his eyes closed, soaking in the sound of Mickey’s soft voice. Ian swallows hard, rubbing little circles over the skin of Mickey’s back, “Yeah?”

Mickey’s fingertips gently scrub against Ian’s scalp, and instead answering, he pulled Ian’s head up, pulling him forward, pressing the most chaste kiss that Ian had ever received from the other man. Soft and careful. Ian was sure he’d melt.

“Every day,” Mickey breathes against his lips. “Every fucking day.”

There’s so much Ian’s feeling. He can’t grab onto one thing, can’t hold it in. His eyes sting and sting and sting, until they’re welling up, and he can’t keep it from happening. He holds his breath, bites his bottom lip, trying to not do this in front of Mickey. But Mickey still has his fingers carding through the back of Ian’s hair, he’s still got his lips a breath away from Ian’s. He’s so warm, like Ian remembers. Like a human furnace all wrapped up in him, pressed against him. Ian never wants to let him go. It’s been six years, and it feels like both longer and shorter than that.

“I missed you too,” Ian’s voice is thick when he says it; tongue heavy in his mouth, feels like there’s a fifty pound weight wedged under his ribs.

They shouldn’t’ve done this. Shouldn’t’ve slept together. Ian knew it would make everything harder, and he was fucking right. He knew this was going to be it. After this…

“Ay,” Mickey catches his attention. “Look at me.” Ian swallows, finally opening his eyes. Mickey’s still looking at him all soft and loving, and Ian’s not sure he can handle that. Mickey moves his hand to wipe his thumb under Ian’s eye, “Stop,” he says. He says it soft, knowing Ian, knowing what’s going on in his head. “Stop, just be here. Stay here.”

“After?” Ian asks. 

Mickey shakes his head, “Stop.” 

He kisses him again. Deep this time, pulling, making Ian melt. They kiss slow. Holding each other, running hands over skin, exploring like they never really got to do before. Ian traces over every dip and curve of Mickey’s back, his side, his hip, thigh, arm —everywhere he can reach while they stay on their sides all tangled up. Soft petal moon skin. 

They kiss for a while, then they don’t —they just lay there looking at each other in silence. It’s the most comfortable mind-quieting silence, and Ian doesn’t even realize how quiet his mind is. And then Mickey’s eyes start to slip close. He shifts, moving to lay on his stomach next to Ian, pressed close still. White sheets pull around his hips, sunlight dancing over his tattooed skin. His face is so relaxed, and there’s that softness again that Ian knows he’s only allowed to see.

Ian just lays there on his side, propped up on one elbow, gently tracing over the lettering spanning between Mickey’s shoulders. He drops a kiss to the back of Mickey’s shoulder, tracing over the letters again, and then the letters framing out the bottom of the piece, letting everyone know where Mickey comes from. Out of all the versions of club tattoos Mickey could’ve gotten, he’d chosen the biggest. His armor, his fucking badge of honor. It was beautiful in that outlaw kind of way, just like Mickey was beautiful in that outlaw kind of way. Ian can’t even imagine Mickey without it now. 

He smirks, rolls his eyes at himself over the way his body reacts to Mickey’s tattoo. How it tightens and warms, because there’s this fucked up part of him that gets off on the boy he loves —the _man_ he loves— being in a fucking biker gang, with a badass biker gang tattoo (Mickey would pull a face at the word gang, correct him it’s a _club_ … but honestly…). Same reaction when Mickey wears his cut and boots, with his worn-in jeans, his sleeveless shirts, his fucking chain. Ian always had a weakness for that look, for Mickey’s commanding walk, his confidence, the easy way he just… moves. 

And then Mickey strips away all the bullshit, and he’s the softest man Ian’s ever known. Mickey’s got layers upon layers. Can kiss Ian tenderly with blood on his knuckles and a bruise encircling his eye, minutes after getting into a fucking bar-brawl with the rest of the club. He can argue with his brothers, slinging the _worst_ kinds of words at them with his razor tongue, and then the next minute tell Ian that he loves him with an _achingly_ gentle tone. He holds Ian’s face with knuckles that are scarred and tattooed with a threat of violence. 

Velvet and stone.

Ian kisses the back of Mickey’s shoulder again, hand rubbing up and down his back, down to his hips; lopsided smile as he reaches down further to gently palm the brunette’s ass before going back to rubbing his back. God, his skin is so fucking soft. 

He lets Mickey sleep, finally laying all the way down next to him. He gently raises one of Mickey’s arms, slipping under it, grinning when Mickey grunts in his sleep, shifting his body so that Ian can slip closer. Mickey’s hand finds Ian’s hair again, lazily burying his fingers. He sighs soft. Ian presses a kiss to his mouth. 

His Mickey is made of silk and razor wire, and Ian’s _still_ fucking hopelessly in love with him. Fuck time, fuck six years, it did nothing to ebb his feelings. Absolutely fucking _nothing_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen, I know that was a lot of emo, graphic sexy-times, but... if you know my writing, you knew it was coming eventually lmao
> 
> THEY DID THE DO!
> 
> (Mickey's line "now make me come, bitch" is possibly my favorite Mickey dialogue I've ever written ever, just saying.)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle up.

Mickey sat on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, hunched over with his face buried in his hands. He took a deep breath, hearing rustling behind him. Ian moving, a warm careful hand sliding across his back while Ian kept moving until he sat next to Mickey, hand now resting between his shoulders. Ian didn’t say anything.

He didn’t regret it, not at fucking all. Being with Ian again like that, letting go and just being _himself_ for a fucking moment, feeling… loved. Fuck, how could regret that. He’d never regret one single moment with Ian, not even when shit really hit the fan and Terry ruined everything. So regret wasn’t the right word. He’d never use that word.

There was just so much else going on, and Mickey had a plan. He was  _ leaving _ . And him leaving should have been reason enough for him to have  _ seriously _ stopped and thought for a second before hunting Ian’s place down. Before knocking on his door. Before kissing him again. Before...

He took a deep breath, pushing his hands up over his forehead, over his hair, head hanging between his shoulders. His body ached sweetly, being properly re-introduced to himself again. To  _ Ian _ again. 

You’d think after six years his body wouldn’t have the same reaction to the redhead as it did when he was a teenager. You’d think his heart would have given itself time to heal and fade away from his feelings towards the other man. Hadn’t. Mickey was kidding himself if he truly thought he’d ever had a chance.

They couldn’t start this up again, no matter how much Mickey wanted to. No matter how much he fucking loved Ian, and he truly with all his being loved that man. He’d kill for him, die for him, do fucking anything, and it used to terrify him. Still scared him a little, but when he realized how much he felt for Ian —that it went beyond best-friend… fuck, it was a nightmare come true. So this had to be it, right? They couldn’t… 

“Mick,” Ian murmurs soft, pulling on him. “C’mere.”

Mickey goes to him, lets himself be enveloped by Ian’s long arms, pulled back down to the bed. Lets himself be held as he wraps his arms around Ian in return. It hurts so fucking much. Everything just hurts so fucking much, it’s taking everything in him not to break. He wants to break, wants to so badly, wants to curl up in a ball and turn into stone.

He wished that it was a different time, a different life. He and Ian never had a fucking chance from the start. It was always going to be doomed, always going to be end up like this.

“S’okay,” Ian whispers to him, like he knows that it really is going to be okay.

“No it’s not,” Mickey whispers back.

There’s no other way to put it. No other way to play it off, no other words to use. They make love. Pure fucking love, and Mickey soaks it all in, because this is the last time he's ever going to feel this much. The heavy breaths, gentle hands. They move together like they’d  _ always _ been together, like they’d grown older together, like they hadn’t spent any time apart. Moved together like they shared a fucking soul.

Mickey ripped his chest open for Ian while he was under him, clinging to him. Ripped his chest open and let it all come to the surface while Ian kissed him soft and said pretty things to him. Said these things that he’s never said before, that Mickey would never want to hear him say because Mickey got his own hang-ups that he’s completely fucking aware of. And being told pretty things about himself if one of those hang-ups. Regardless of those hang-ups, Mickey rips his chest open and lets it all in to meet everything he lets rise to the surface. 

He swears they fill the whole room with that energy. The whole building. The city. He feels so much, so much that he can’t breathe, doesn’t know what to do with all of it. 

His legs hitch higher on Ian’s waist as he reaches above him, grabbing onto the tangled sheets. He gasps and arches. Ian’s hands are everywhere, mouth following behind. He’s so full and feels so good, and Ian loves him, loves on him, and Mickey soaks it all in, loving him back as hard as he can. Because he does. He loves him. Still. Always. He’s Ian’s, always. He’ll never not be Ian’s.

And he almost says it. Told himself not to say it, but he almost does because his chest is so open and everything is spilling out. Mickey keeps looking into green eyes, not daring to look away. “ _ Fuck _ ,” he forces his mouth to say instead. His eyes are prickling, and he hates himself for it. 

Ian rolls his hips deep, slow. Kisses him deep, slow. Looks down at him, flushed with soft eyes, and kiss-swollen lips, he tells him, “You’re fucking beautiful.”

“Ian,” Mickey barely gets it out. There’s too many feelings, it’s hard to focus. 

Ian kisses him again. Kisses his neck, his shoulder, buries his face in the crook of his neck, “I know.”

They breathe together. Mickey’s hands grab at Ian’s back, reach down to his ass, pulling him closer, needing more, needing everything. “I need you,” he says. Sounds fucking broken. Doesn’t know if he needs now, or later, or forever, doesn’t know what he’s really talking about, he’s just talking. “Need you,” he says again.

There’s no space between them as Ian lays over him, caging Mickey in with his arms, he kisses him, looks at him with those same soft eyes, “M’right here,” he tells him.

It’s too much, and Mickey’s beyond caring if he sounds, looks or even fucking smells like a bitch, so caught up, so full and overwhelmed. He fucking loves Ian hard. Loves him harder than he’s ever loved anyone or anything. And here they are, and it’s perfect but in the outside world it’s a fucking nightmare. But in this bubble. The quiet. The heat. The love. So much fucking love, it barely feels real. But it is. So here Mickey is, on the verge of climax, love of his life buried deep inside of him, tears in his fucking eyes while he keeps telling Ian that he needs him.

“I’m right here, baby,” Ian says thickly. 

Mickey used to hate that, but he got used to it. Ian only says it when he’s fucking him, when Mickey is open and exposed, and needs soft —even when he’s getting it hard, even when Ian’s got his hand wrapped around his throat and saying filthy things to him. That stupid fucking word, that little softened edge. It does something to him. Can’t even describe it. Makes him feel good. Loved. Safe. All that shit. He’s Ian’s. 

His entire life is about controlling himself — _ control-restraint-control-restraint _ . Controlling what he says, what he does, how he moves, how he fucking  _ breathes _ around the people in his life. His father set a guideline on how to be a man, and Mickey has to follow that to a fucking T. Not with Ian though. There’s no fucking guideline. There’s no rules like that. No fear.

For a long time he thought he was giving up so much power when he thought of himself as Ian’s, but that wasn’t  _ —isn’t— _ the case at all. No one’s taking anything from him. No one’s forcing him. He gave it, willingly,  _ voluntarily _ giving it, giving himself. That’s  _ his _ fucking choice, and it doesn't make him a bitch, doesn’t make him weak. He knows that now. He’s Ian’s because he  _ wants _ to be Ian’s, not because Ian said so.  _ Mickey _ says.

“Say it,” Mickey gasps. He wraps his arms around Ian’s neck, moving with him. He’s so fucking close. Right there. “Say it,” he says again.

Ian’s breathing so hard against his mouth, kissing him while he fucks into him harder, but still slow. Drawing it out, pushing so fucking deep, making Mickey shiver and whine. “You’re mine,” Ian grunts. “All mine. So good, Mick… fuck, you’re so good.”

Mickey’s stomach flips. Right there. He’s right there. “Ian,” he breathes.

Ian reaches with one hand, sinking fingers into Mickey’s hair, tugging at the strands, “Come with me,” he tells him. 

“Fuck,” Mickey squeezes his eyes shut. His head’s going static, and he feels the tears building in the corners of his eyes. “Fuck,” he whispers over and over. 

“Open your eyes,” Ian all but begs. “Baby, please.”

Mickey opens his eyes; it looks like he’s underwater. He’s there… he’s right fucking there. “Oh god,” he mouths, quickly wedging his hand between them, wrapping around himself.

Ian’s breathing is erratic as he pushes faster, harder. They fall hard. Open gasping mouths, clinging tightly. They fall harder than Mickey’s ever fallen before. So hard that his whole body shakes, so hard that he fucking swears he blacks out for a second. Ian takes big gulps of breath above him, falling over him as he eases out gently, but not moving. Mickey likes that. Likes Ian’s weight on top of him, anchoring him. 

Ian kisses his cheek. Whispers softer than his kiss, “You’re so beautiful.” Mickey’s lost count of how many times Ian has said that. Each one sweeter than the last, fucking sap.

Mickey feels a whole other warmth over his body, his face. He doesn’t know what to say back, so he kisses Ian instead, licks into his mouth, tastes him deeply. Kisses him hard. No one’s ever going to love him the way Ian does, he feels that, knows that deep down. Just does. And not only does he not want anyone else to try… but Mickey’s never going to love anyone else the way he loves Ian. He knows that just as sure as he knows his fucking name.

 

* * *

 

After they clean themselves up, jump in a hot shower and experience that for the first time ever —showering together, maneuvering in a tiny tub, snorting laughs when one of them bitches about not being able to be under the water at the same time. Showering together looks better in the movies, Mickey decides. It would probably be better if it were a bigger space. 

But it gives them the excuse to touch and kiss even more, grinning against each other’s mouths. It’s eye-roll inducing. But they’re still in the protective bubble of Ian’s apartment, so Mickey doesn’t fucking care. 

By the time they’re done, both of them are starving, so Ian runs down to the Thai place, leaving Mickey alone for a little while. 

He calls Sully, using the phone in the kitchen. Jasmine answers. “Hey baby, you okay?”

“Yeah,” Mickey clears his throat, trying to make this quick. “Yeah, uh, is Sully around?”

“Just a sec,” she says, haphazardly covers the mouthpiece as she calls for him. There’s rustling and the sound of Sully’s voice as he speaks to Jasmine, then sounds of kissing —because the two of them are fucking gross like that. Mickey rolls his eyes.

Finally Sully is talking, “Ay,” he says. “Sup.”

Mickey sighs heavy, looking around Ian’s kitchen, “So… I’m at Ian’s.”

It’s quiet for a second, then, “Oh shit.”

“Yeah,” Mickey scratches the back of his neck.

“Please tell me you didn’t—”

“Twice,” Mickey cuts him off.

Sully sighs this long drawn out breath, “Does he know you’re leaving?”

“No,” Mickey tells him.

“Well, you need to fucking tell him before ya’ll get too deep. Man, you start that up again and...”

Too late. Mickey chews on his bottom lip, “I know.”

It’s quiet again, and Mickey can practically hear Sully making that somewhat constipated looking face. “You need a couple days? Try to bang it out of your system, yeah?” Sully knew it wouldn’t work that way with Ian, and Mickey knew that, so there was no point in correcting him. He was just talking, just trying to ease the tension a little. 

Mickey swallows hard, moving to lean against the kitchen doorframe, looking out into the hallway. His cut is laying on the floor still, staring up at him. His tongue catches the corner of his mouth. “Can’t stay here all weekend… just a night, maybe, if he’s cool with it.”

Sully snorts a laugh, “He’s cool with it. Probably  _ wants _ you to stay the weekend, man. You know Ian, he’s all fucking roses.”

Mickey grins to himself; yeah, he knows. “I’ll let you know, okay? Just cover me tonight if anyone asks. I owe you.”

“You don’t owe me shit,” Sully said. “If I don’t hear from you in the morning, last I heard you were in Milwaukee.”

“Thanks, Sull,” Mickey sighed. 

_ Milwaukee _ —the clubs code for lone wolf type weekend benders —for leave me the fuck alone, unless you want a boot in your ass. Because sometimes you just need to check out and leave planet earth for a little while, and not have anyone fucking bother you. Iggy went to Milwaukee a lot. After Mickey’s little spat with his father last night, it wouldn’t be too far of a stretch.

Mickey hangs up the phone. Breathes. After this weekend, he  _ has _ to make himself walk away. He has to make himself put head over heart. No matter how much it tears him up inside.

He doesn’t snoop around, not really. Doesn’t go through Ian’s dresser drawers and cabinets. Just looks at shit surface level. There’s a laundry hamper in the corner of his livingroom though, with a uniform shirt sitting on top. Dark blue. Mickey frowns at it, wondering what that’s about. 

There’s also a pair of running shoes that have been  _ well _ worn-in thrown next to the front door. A pile of mail on the kitchen counter. A couple family pictures on the fridge —held in place by simple black button-like magnets. There’s a bookshelf, half books and half VHS tapes; Mickey smirks at the movie selection Action movies mixed in with a couple chick-flick looking ones, and a few horror.

What really catches Mickey’s eye though, is the piece of frayed fabric sticking out from between a copy of  _ Double Impact _ and  _ Kickboxer _ . Curiosity gets the better of him, and he tugs on the fabric, heart jumping into his throat when he realizes what it is. 

He picks it up, remembers.

_ “Ay, you’re fucking late, bitch” Mickey grinned wide, seeing Ian step down into the dugouts. He didn’t wait for a response, immediately reaching for the redhead, pulling him by the front of his belt, kissing him hard.  _

_ “Sorry,” Ian laughed against his mouth. “What’s going on?” _

_ Mickey kept grinning, couldn’t stop. He felt like he was high… which, to be fair, he was a little high, but whatever. He took his pocket knife out, opening it up. He went for the rectangular Prospect patch on the front of his cut, making quick work to remove the patch with his blade. _

_ “Fuck,” Ian chuckled. “Already?” _

_ Mickey nodded, pulling the patch off of his cut, holding it between them as he put his knife back. “Couple hours ago. Thought they were gonna make me wait, but…” _

_ Ian kissed him hard, holding his face, “You happy?” _

_ Mickey hummed, nodding, kissing him again until they were breathless. Then he pushed the patch into Ian’s hand, “Keep it.” _

_ “You sure?” Ian closed his hand around it, eyes wide. _

_ “Fuck yeah,” Mickey nodded.  _

_ Ian pocketed it, but Mickey didn’t miss the way he dipped his head, the dim light barely allowing him to see the blush that crept over his cheeks. “When do you get inked in?”  _

_ “Tomorrow,” Mickey answered. “Gonna have a big fucking party, you gotta come. Get wasted, come hang out with the guys, bullshit around. You love that shit.” _

_ Ian nodded, but it was off. “Yeah, sure.” _

_ “What’s wrong?” _

_ “Nothing,” Ian shook his head. _

_ Mickey sighed, rolling his eyes, “C’mon, man. The fuck’s wrong?” _

_ It took a minute for Ian to respond. He hesitated a few times, mouth parting to speak, but stuffing back whatever the words were every time. And then his shoulders fell and he shook his head, “Just getting hard to watch you with all those girls, Mick. Hard knowing you fuck them.” _

_ And just like that… Mickey shook his head, sitting heavily on the bench, “I don’t got a fucking choice here, man.” _

_ “I know,” Ian said. “I’m sorry, I know —I knew that going into this… I’m sorry. It’s just hard.” _

_ “Don’t be sorry,” Mickey said. _

The sound of the apartment door opening and shutting again pulled Mickey out of his head. He cleared his throat, quickly stuffing the patch back where he found it, then made his way over to Ian, taking a seat at the small kitchen table. Ian gave him a soft smile; Mickey gave him one back.

It wasn’t necessarily awkward, but it was a little… odd. There were a lot of unspoken words that were hanging between them, and Mickey could practically pick them out of the air one by one. 

He  _ had _ to tell Ian.

Mickey leaned back in his chair when he was finished eating, plucking his box of cigarettes off of the table, holding one up to ask if it was okay. Ian nodded, so Mickey lit one up, sucking hard before blowing the smoke up into the air. His stomach was twisted up in knots, but he had to push through. Couldn’t be a pussy about this. “Listen, I gotta talk to you about something.”

Ian arched a brow at him, putting his fork down, “Okay.”

Mickey scratched the corner of his mouth with his thumb. He hesitated. The words were right there, but… he couldn’t. It would make everything come crashing down, make Ian look at him with hard, hurting eyes and ask a million questions that he wasn’t ready to answer yet.

He shook his head, pulling something else out of the air, “Uh… you go all official on me?”

Ian frowned, confused, “Huh?”

Mickey nodded in the direction towards the living room, “Uniform shirt —or is that your boyfriend’s?” Fuck, that just slipped out. Didn’t even realize that was on his fucking mind. (How could it  _ not _ be on his mind though). Mickey bit his bottom lip, breath caught in his throat. Well, couldn’t take it back now. 

“You think if I had a boyfriend, I’d cheat on him?” Ian countered. Mickey gave Ian a once over. Tilted his head. Took another drag of his cigarette. “You think I’d cheat on him with you.” It wasn’t a question. 

Mickey shrugged a shoulder, “I know you,” he said. Then quieter, laced with a little heat that escaped on it’s own, “He know you like I know you?”

Ian sighed at him, but got a little flushed in his face, “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

He pointed at Ian, “You got something. You can’t  _ not _ have something. I fucking know you.”

Ian snorted a laugh, eyes rolling. That goofy ass laugh.

“Yeah,” Mickey smiled, because he couldn’t not smile when Ian laughed like that. He sat up, elbows on the table, leaning forward a little, because he’s Mickey Milkovich and he couldn’t fucking help himself. He had to dig the thorn deeper into himself, “He know I’m here?”

The redhead stalled for a minute, and Mickey felt this odd mix of jealousy and disappointment. He was in no position to be pissed, had no fucking place. It stung a little, stupid as it was. “He’s  _ not _ my boyfriend. He doesn’t even spend the night,” Ian finally admitted. “It’s none of his fucking business that you’re here.”

“Sneaky, Gallagher,” Mickey noted, arching a brow, challenging him.

Ian scoffed, shaking his head, “Listen, I don't give a shit if he knows you’re here. He’s not my fucking boyfriend, Mick.” Mickey was getting to him; could hear it in his clipped tone. 

But Mickey's a bastard sometimes. Couldn't deny that. Bastard to himself and those around him. Had to make shit harder than it needed to be, had to fucking torture himself. “You want him to be your boyfriend? Get a little dog with a fucking sweater?”

Ian shook his head, reaching for his beer bottle; he was blatantly refusing Mickey’s bait, the prick, “He’s an accountant… North Side.”

“Not really your style,” Mickey cleared his throat. He needed to shut the fuck up, but was failing at that miserably. 

“Kinda the point, Mickey,” Ian murmured, taking a long drink of his beer. Kept his eyes on Mickey. Fucker stole his move, and it worked like a drug.

Mickey nodded; backed off; didn’t want to think about Ian fucking some North Side twink. “So you  _ did _ go official on me.”

“EMT,” Ian shrugged.

“Mm,” Mickey hummed, giving Ian a once over, imaging him in the EMT gear. God, he probably looked so fucking good. Mickey never really had a thing for men in uniform, but he could get behind that shit… in front of that shit, rather.

Then, it was like a bucket of fucking ice Ian threw on him, “You got yourself set up over at the club? Got yourself a side-bitch?”

It took a while for Mickey to recover from the question. He knew his face was all screwed up, looking at Ian like he’d sprouted another fucking head. He knew that it bothered Ian a lot that Mickey had to have a side-bitch, but why the fuck bring that shit up now? Why try to pop their fucking safety bubble, the fuck is that?

“Fuck’s wrong with you?” Mickey asked.

Ian scoffed, “Oh, so...  _ you _ can ask if I’m sticking my dick somewhere else, but I can’t ask you the same thing? Got it.”

“It’s different, and you fucking know that,” Mickey shot back. Though, he wasn’t really sure if he even believed his own words; didn’t know if he was in the right or wrong, here. 

“Whatever, Mickey,” Ian shook his head. 

Couldn’t keep talking about this shit, or else they’d turn it into a goddamn war. “Don’t wanna fucking fight with you, man. Been six years since I seen your narrow ass.”

“I don’t either,” Ian sighed. 

What the fuck do you talk about after six years? Mickey rubbed his hand over his mouth, pulled on his bottom lip. “So, how’s the EMT gig going?”

“It’s going,” Ian said.

“You don’t like it?” 

Ian shook his head, “No, I like it… m’good at it, pays the bills. Just didn’t expect it, you know? Wasn’t really the plan.”

_ The plan _ . Ian never had a hard outline for his life, but he’d always had an idea. Army dreams, being Captain fucking America, all that shit. Fizzled out real quick when that fucking school glossed over him, basically told him he wasn’t fucking smart enough (which to this day blew Mickey’s mind, because Ian’s smart as  _ hell _ ). It had been a kick to the ribs, for Ian —kick to the ribs, mouthful of dirt, all that. 

Mickey hated that fucking school for what they unknowingly did to Ian. They took Ian’s dreams in their entitled hands and shredded it to pieces, and didn’t even fucking know. Didn’t care. After that, Ian dropped his Captain America dreams, lost all belief in himself when it came to that, and seemed to just want to do “whatever”. Like an aimless end-goal… do  _ whatever _ sticks,  _ whatever _ caught his attention,  _ whatever _ paid. Then every time Mickey had tried to attempt to nudge him back in that direction, Ian blew it off, told him it was a waste of time. What it was was a real fucking shame. 

“Fuck plans,” Mickey said. Which was such a weird thing to say, and anyone who knew Mickey would look at him like he’d lost his mind. Mickey’s life was nothing  _ but _ plans. Didn’t always mean they stuck course, but they were always there, always adjusting. 

Ian gave him a lopsided grin, letting Mickey get away with his attempt to make him feel better. “Yeah,” he said. “I don’t wanna do it forever, but… it’s a decent job. Keeps me on my toes.”

Mickey nodded. It felt like they were dancing around something. There was so much swimming through Mickey’s head though, it was hard to pull out exactly which one first. There were too many things left unsaid between them, too many things that were never dealt with. They had a mountain of unfinished business and open wounds that needed patching. The fuck were they supposed to fix first? Did it even matter at this point —as there any point in trying?

“How’s Lana?” Ian asked. It looked like it physically fucking pained him to even say her name. 

Mickey’s brows shot up; couldn’t help it. Wasn’t like he _forgot_ about Svetlana, wasn’t like he didn’t expect her to come up at all, but he wasn’t expecting his sting in his chest when Ian asked. This painful burning sting right through his sternum, because it became undeniably fucking real that Ian really had just… left her.

To be fair, there were about a dozen extenuating circumstances beyond what Mickey already knew. He knew that Ian felt fully responsible for what happened with the three of them, knew that Ian couldn’t hold it together whenever he looked at Svetlana, because he couldn’t save her —them. It was this very fragile, complicated web of reasons. 

But beyond that, Ian being around Svetlana after “the incident” would have blown up in flames. Someone would have found out that Ian was hanging around again, it would have gotten back to Terry and (at the time) Petrov. And then both Ian and Svetlana would have been directly in the crosshairs.  Mickey doesn’t give Ian a hard time about it. He doesn’t act like an asshole, doesn’t start with the shitty comments. Because it’s more complicated than Ian likes to believe. And because he knows Ian, knows that the redhead is putting himself through enough hell for it. Probably beats the dog shit out of himself for it. 

The thing that Mickey knows Ian doesn’t even register ninety nine percent of the time is that if Ian hung around Svetlana after all that shit went down… he’d have been killed. No questions asked.

“She’s good,” Mickey says. “Got herself a girlfriend.” Ian swallows hard, like he’s scared but doesn’t want to show it. Mickey adds quickly, “S’okay, they’re careful… they’ve been together for a few years now. No one fucking bothers her anymore anyways, not really. Especially since Petrov fucking died.”

Ian nods, looks like he hadn’t heard that name in years. “So she’s… happy?”

Mickey shrugs a little, “Happy as she can be with my ass back home.” Sully’s voice  _ —you need to fucking tell him before ya’ll get too deep— _ creeps in the back of his mind. He ignores it.

That gets the redhead to give a tiny smirk, so Mickey’s happy. “I miss her,” he murmurs.

“Pretty sure she misses you too,” Mickey tells him. 

“I should’ve been there for her,” Ian says.

Mickey shook his head, “You know what would’ve happened.” 

Ian sighs, hesitates, “I know.”

“So does she,” Mickey says. “She knows.”

“Tell her I love her for me?” Ian looks at him. His eyes are all glassy, and all Mickey wants to do is kiss him soft. “Please?”

“Yeah,” Mickey nods. “‘Course.”

And then, it’s hours later, near midnight, when they’re high as fuck and sitting on the edge of Ian’s bed, facing the window. It’s got a good view of the sky, and they’re just looking out behind the glass at the pinpricks of stars. City lights mask most of the stars, make the sky more gray than black, but it’s all they’ve ever known, so it’s perfect.

They’d talked about mundane shit. Talked about serious shit too. Ian told Mickey about what his family had been up to. About how Lip was fucking married now with a kid, and Debbie was fresh out of college. Carl was still fucking around in South Side, still living at home; Liam was probably smarter than Lip. Mickey already knew Fiona was at the diner. 

Ian didn’t ask too much about the club, about Mickey’s siblings. Mickey didn’t offer the information up unsolicited, either. There wasn’t much of a point to. And a thousand times, Mickey’s tongue begged to tell Ian that he was leaving, even wanted to ask Ian to run away with him. But a thousand times Mickey held it back. 

“Feels like a dream,” Mickey says to Ian, passing the joint back to him.

“Good dream,” Ian says back.

The words, “The fuck am I supposed to do,” just bled from Mickey’s mouth, unfiltered. Fuck it. He let them. “You’re not there… the fuck am I supposed to do?”

Ian reached over, fingers linking with Mickey’s, “M’right here.”

Mickey shook his head, “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I know,” Ian sighed. 

“Wish you could’ve visited me,” Mickey said. “Hard in there… saw so much fucked up shit, I… just fucking needed you.”

Ian’s arm drapes over the back of Mickey’s shoulders, pulling him sideways; kiss to the top of his head that made Mickey feel warm all over. His voice is thick when he murmurs into Mickey’s hair, “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault,” Mickey tells him.

“Still sorry,” Ian breathes. “I wanted to… I was so fucked up over everything. I think I’m still fucked up over it.”

Mickey leaned into Ian more, hand resting on the redhead’s thigh, “It’s good you didn’t come see me. Woulda been bad if you did.”

“Fuck them,” Ian said.

“At least Petrov kicked it, yeah?”

“Yeah,” finally a small (though bitter and forced) laugh.

_ —you need to fucking tell him before ya’ll get too deep— _

“Ay,” Mickey lifted his head, looking at Ian. He grabbed on to the back of his neck, pulling him closer, foreheads touching. The right thing to do would be to tell Ian. The right thing to do would be to walk away right now, to not get deeper than he already was. Too late though, wasn’t it?

“Ay,” Ian said back, barely a whisper.

Not yet. Just not yet. “We gotta cut this shit out,” Mickey said instead. “Fucking depressing.”

Ian kissed him, smiled against his mouth when he did, “Then shut the fuck up.”

Mickey breathed a laugh, let himself be pulled into Ian’s lap, though his body tensed for a second. It was fleeting, stupid hang-ups dissolving quickly away. Ian held his hips, kissed him hard, and Mickey melted against him as he kissed him back. Chests pressed together, Mickey made everything else float away as he greedily worked his lips against the redhead’s. They only had the here and now, and wasting the here and now talking about all this bad, depressing shit was fucking dumb.

 

* * *

 

Sunday comes too quick. Staying the entire weekend hadn’t been the plan, but it happened, and now time felt like sand falling through Mickey’s fingers, leaving him internally scrambling for just a little bit more. He’ll tell Ian that he’s leaving. He will. Not right away and not right before he leaves Ian’s apartment. Sometime in between. He  _ will _ tell him. He has to.

But for now, he breathes deep. It’s morning, and he wakes up to Ian pressing against his back, to slow kisses on the side of his neck, arms drawn around him firmly. He wakes up to a hand gripping his thigh and Ian’s mouth pressed against his ear, smile in his voice.

“Wake up, pretty boy,” he teases knowing it drives Mickey up a fucking wall to be called that. “Got something for you.”

Mickey groans, his own hands searching back for Ian’s skin, his hair, anything he can touch, “Call me that again, this ass is closed for business.”

Ian breathes a laugh against his neck as he kisses his skin again, “I think you secretly like it.”

“Beg to differ,” Mickey closes his eyes tight when Ian’s hand slips down into his boxers, fingers brushing against him. He feels himself start swelling more from the touch, feels this gentle flip in his gut. “Mm…”

“But you  _ are _ pretty,” Ian whispered.

“Yeah, but if anyone’s a pretty boy in this bed, it’s you,” Mickey wets his lips, hips pushing back against Ian. “Fucking soft ass hands. Sure you’re South Side?”

Ian sucks his teeth against Mickey’s ear; Mickey grins. “Be nice,” Ian tells him.

“You don’t like me nice.”

“I like you nice,” Ian’s breath was so warm against his ear, his low tone waking his body up more and more. 

Ian kissed behind his ear, and Mickey shuddered, then turned his head around as best he could, catching Ian’s mouth in a kiss; Ian finally slipped his hand around Mickey’s swelling erection. It was perfect, Ian’s other arm wrapped around Mickey’s chest, pulling him back tight against himself, holding onto him with this fierce yet gentle grip. They kissed lazy and breathy, and it was all fucking perfect.

“C’mere,” Ian breathed against Mickey’s mouth, letting him turn in his arms.

He kept moving though, until he was laying on top of Ian, grinning down at him, holding his hands down against the bed. He rolled his hips down against Ian; both of them hard and ready, straining under their boxers. Ian’s eyes rolled as he moaned.

“Yeah, you’re the pretty boy,” Mickey kept looking at him, eyes searching all over his face and chest; wet his lips because his mouth was fucking watering from the sight of the redhead. “Real fucking pretty.”

Ian smirked up at him, “You gonna keep talking, or...?”

Mickey breathed a laugh, bending down to kiss Ian, licking into his mouth while his hips rolled again, “What you want, pretty boy?”

“You know,” Ian said. He was breathing so hard against Mickey’s mouth, arms fidgeting under Mickey’s hold.

He did know. Mickey bit Ian’s bottom lip, “You want me to suck your—”

“Say it the other way,” Ian cut him off with a rushed whisper; Mickey's stomach flipped in nostalgia and want. “Say it the other way. Love that shit.”

Mickey’s whole body shuddered, a slow grin creeping over his mouth as he trailed his mouth over to Ian’s neck, then right under his ear. His mouth watered again as he felt Ian arch and press up against him. 

Finally, Mickey scraped his teeth under Ian’s ear before he said it the way Ian asked for, “I want to suck your cock. Want it down my throat.”

“ _ Shit _ ,” Ian groaned; the smile in his voice was blatant; the way he shook under Mickey, full of want and uninhibited. 

Just because Mickey’s a bastard and knows what most gets to the redhead, he kissed his lips again, demanding this time, taking over. Ian let him, practically whining into his mouth. “Can I?” he grinned after roughly breaking it; he rolled his hips slower that time. “Can I suck your cock?”

Ian laughed through a tortured groan, “Fuck you,” he ended the sound with. 

“Not an answer,” Mickey teased.

“If you don’t, I’m gonna die,” Ian panted. 

Mickey snorted a laugh, starting to move down to Ian’s chest. “So fucking dramatic.”

Ian’s skin tasted so fucking good. Mickey dragged his lips and tongue along the line of his collarbone, scraped his teeth over his ribs. He normally wasn’t one for taking his time, wasn’t one to do shit like this, but the way Ian’s skin felt under his mouth was addictive, so he couldn’t really help it. He’d dreamt about tasting and exploring Ian ten thousand times, always thought if he’d try, he’d be awkward, but nothing feels awkward about this. It’s instinct.

“Mm,” Ian hummed, his fingers brushing through Mickey’s hair, and that felt real fucking good too. Ian’s hands had constantly been in Mickey’s hair all weekend, and he really couldn’t think of a much better feeling. “Look at me,” he whispered.

Mickey did, eyes flicking up while his tongue and lips pressed against the cut of Ian’s hip. Ian pulled his hair a little bit, the redhead catching his bottom lip between his teeth. Mickey grabbed at the band of his boxers, tugging them down.

His patience wore out after his eyes fell on Ian’s cock. He groaned, couldn’t help it. He fucking  _ loved _ Ian’s cock. Loved how it felt in his hand, in his mouth, hitting the back of his throat. Loved the taste of it and how his jaw ached from stretching open so wide to fit it inside. Fucking  _ loved _ it.

“Fuck,” Ian hissed when Mickey took him into his hand. 

“ _ Christ _ , you’re hard,” Mickey commented, moving his hand down to the base, squeezing him there. What a beautiful fucking cock.

“Yeah,” he panted back. “Help me out?”

“Mm,” Mickey licked his lips before pressing them to the tip. He drew Ian in; Ian shuddered through a soft moan.

Mickey closed his eyes and hummed; that initial taste of Ian on his tongue, making his mouth water. Mickey took him deep, involuntarily moaning around Ian. Took him deep, and good. So fucking good, he could do this every fucking day.

To think that there was a time where Mickey Milkovich scoffed at the idea of having another guy’s cock in his mouth was fucking ridiculous now. To think it used to make him feel like a bitch, used to embarrass him — _ what did he look like sucking a dick? _ Who. Fucking. Cared. By the way that Ian looked down at him and cursed, and stroked his hair and face… he looked fucking good.

“Swear,” Ian panted, all flushed. “Fucking  _ best _ , Mick. God, so good…”

Mickey pulled off of Ian with a savage grin, replacing his mouth with his hand. Tight, long strokes, “Fucking right, I am.”

“Yeah,” Ian breathed. His eyes shut tight, hips rocking up into Mickey’s hold. “Yeah…”

He dipped down, licking a fat stripe up the underside of Ian’s cock, then drew him back inside again. Maybe it was fucking stupid and pointless, but if this was really going to be the last time he did this for Ian, it was going to be the fucking best time, and anyone else who got to choke on this monster would never compare, if Mickey had anything to say about it.

“God, you look so good,” Ian slurred. 

Mickey grunted in response, wrapping his hand around what he couldn’t fit into his mouth. He looked up at Ian while he worked him, grunting again. 

Ian licked his lips, staring right back at Mickey, watching him, have him a cocky little smile, “Like that, huh? Want more?”

“Mmhm,” Mickey hummed deep. No use denying it. Ian knew more than anyone how much Mickey loved his cock.

Fingers brushed into his hair, moving to the back of his head, curling in the strands there. Mickey moaned around Ian again, gladly letting his head be pushed down, taking Ian as far as he could, letting the redhead rock into his mouth, fucking him slow there.

Mickey chased his hand with his mouth, over and over while Ian held onto him. Tight and wet and deep, getting fucking messy with it; he was  _ so _ hard, tempted to shove his own hand down his boxers to get himself off while he got Ian off. Mickey hummed around Ian, hummed until he got what he want, until Ian was spilling into his mouth, a mess of limp limbs and flushed skin.

“C’mere,” Ian murmured right after, not even taking a second to breathe; he pulled on Mickey. “Fuck, baby c’mere.”

Ian moved them until Mickey was pressed to the mattress, looking up at the panting redhead. God, he was fucking beautiful. Mickey sighed into the kiss, feeling so good after that, feeling wanted and all that other shit. And the way Ian laid on top of him, covering him, sinking heavily into him so that Mickey had to wrap his legs around his hips… he’d miss this so fucking much.

With a strategically wedged hand between them, Ian got Mickey off. Mouths pressed together, the redhead urged him through his orgasm _ —come for me, that’s it baby, come for me, just like this, come for me— _ kissing and whispering soft, drawing out aching noises from Mickey, asking to hear him, asking to look at his face when he came undone. 

“Baby, you did so fucking good,” Ian whispered. “You sucked my cock so good, I still feel your mouth on me.”

Mickey choked through a gasp, eyes screwing shut. There was static in his head, spreading out everywhere. “M’gonna—“

“Look at me when you come,” Ian said hotly against his lips before he kissed him deep, grip tightening. “You’re so fucking sexy when you come, let me watch.”

Mickey broke apart under Ian, eyes snapping open as he shook and let his mouth run, voice spilling right into Ian’s mouth — _ don’t stop, wanna feel, fuck Ian don’t stop _ . He clung hard to Ian, loud and raw and quick, he came. His body shuddered while Ian worked him all the way through his orgasm, worked him until the very end like Mickey wanted, worked him until he couldn't take it anymore. 

The shower was hot afterwards, steam swirling around them. More clinging and kissing, and staying as close as possible in the tight space. Touching, too, so much touching. Mickey’s body was exhausted, and Ian had to be as well, but they gave each other one more, fell apart one more time under the water.

After, in clean boxers and damp skin, they just laid there in bed for what could have been hours, Mickey didn’t know. Ian kissing him slow, kissing him soft, caging Mickey in with his hands, making a second smaller bubble just for them, inside the bubble that was already there. 

And there in that second bubble, Mickey nodded when Ian whispered to him. He listened and nodded, pressing his mouth up against Ian’s when the time came. Over and over. Just Mickey and Ian in that space, just them. Words just for them, that they had to leave there between them. There was no club in that bubble, no such thing as a Milkovich, or an Iron Eagle, or even a Gallagher, there was just  _ them _ . Stripped down to their foundations, stripped of all the bullshit.

It was the softest that Mickey had ever felt in his entire life. Soft, and raw, and honest. And he’d never forget that feeling. He’d never let himself forget that this is what he had with Ian. This  _ softness _ that he wasn’t allowed in the real world. 

The real world. Mickey had to leave soon. Had to leave the apartment… then later, months later, had to leave forever. Ian didn’t know that still. But by the way that he held Mickey, by the way he said those words… it seemed like he did know  _ something _ . Like he was saying everything he could before Mickey dropped the bomb.

Then Ian said it first. Didn’t always say it first, but he said it first then, with his lips ghosting over Mickey’s, green so close but locked onto blue, he said it and Mickey couldn’t breathe. He shifted, moving them so they were both on their sides, facing each other, all tangled up and sharing breaths. He said it. 

“I love you. I never stopped. I… I can’t stop.”

He couldn’t think, couldn’t move. Hadn’t heard Ian say that in so fucking long, and didn’t realize how much his  _ soul _ needed that, how his heart felt a little less shredded. He shouldn’t’ve, God fucking knows he should not have, but he said it back, “I love you too.” 

Because he meant it; because it was the truth. He’d never stopped either, couldn’t stop even if he wanted to —and there had been times where he’d wanted to, where he wanted nothing more than to  _ not _ feel what he did. There had been a lot of those times in the past six years.

Ian stroked the side of his face, green glassy and wet, “I don’t want you to go.”

Mickey closed his eyes. If he didn’t, he would fucking break. Ian was talking about the apartment, but all Mickey could think about was the country. He didn’t know what to say, so he just nodded. Heart in his fucking throat, the words wouldn’t form right, wouldn’t come together. He needed to tell Ian, couldn’t just vanish one day with no explanation, didn’t feel right.

He sighed heavy, gently breaking away from Ian to sit up in bed, watching as the redhead followed his lead, his brows creased in confusion, “What’s wrong?” Ian asked.

“Something I gotta tell you,” Mickey sighed. His stomach was all in knots, looking over at Ian. Red hair all messed up, green eyes locked and intense. “I dunno what you’re gonna say about it, especially after all this,” he made a general gesture between them. Fuck, Ian was going to hate him, wasn’t he? He waited too long, he waited until the worst moment. 

But he told him anyway, because Ian deserved to know. “I’m leaving,” he said. “I’m  _ Leaving _ -leaving.”

Ian sat there with an unreadable expression, just sat there staring back at Mickey before he shook his head, “What?”

“I’m leav—”

“No, I fucking heard you,” Ian got up from the bed, hands roughly running over his hair. Again, he shook his head, hadn’t really stopped actually. “I can’t… are you fucking kidding me? Tell me you’re joking.”

“M’not joking,” Mickey said. Came out all soft and worried; he felt raw, like an opened wound festering, kind of raw. 

Ian just kept staring at him. Mickey got up from the bed, not knowing if he should start pulling clothes on or go to the redhead, try to calm him down or something. Ian had fucking murder in his eyes, and Mickey couldn’t even  _ pretend _ to act like it was an overreaction.

Just like that, the bubble popped. Reality bled in, drowning them.

“Shouldn’t’ve come,” Mickey whispered, mostly to himself. Shouldn’t have come, shouldn’t have done this to Ian, to himself… this shouldn’t have happened.

He didn’t think about this part, even when he did think about it, he didn’t  _ really _ fucking stop and think what would happen, what would Ian’s reaction be. How it would hurt Ian, how they holed up together for a weekend of fucking and talking (but mostly fucking, because it was  _ them _ , and that’s how it always happened). Then Ian told Mickey he still loved him, and Mickey had to open his fucking mouth and say it back, knowing…

Jeans were thrown against Mickey’s chest; he caught them, stomach sinking. “Get out,” Ian said through clenched teeth. 

“Ian,” Mickey’s shoulders sank, watching Ian come around the bed, trying to leave the bedroom. “Look, I’m sorry. I should’ve told you—” when Ian passed, Mickey caught him by the elbow. “Ian, fucking wait for a sec—”

Mickey can’t really remember the last time Ian punched him in the jaw, but the redhead hit him like a  _ motherfucker _ . Put his whole body into it, didn’t hold back at all. And Mickey wasn’t expecting it, so he went the fuck  _ down _ . Hard.

“Fuck you,” Ian was seething from above.

Dazed, Mickey grabbed at the edge of the bed, a slurred curse falling from his lips as he climbed back onto his feet. “Jesus Christ,” he wiped at his mouth. “I’ll give you that one.”

“You need to fucking go,” Ian was saying to him. Still that hard voice, still murder in his eyes when Mickey finally looked at him. “Just go.”

Mickey stood there in Ian’s bedroom, throbbing jaw, watching the redhead closely. Ian stared right back, his fist was still balled up, brows drawn tight in anger. “This how you wanna do it?” Mickey asked him.

“No,” Ian spat the word like it was made of poison. Then Ian’s in his face, because he’s not scared of Mickey Milkovich. Ian never backed down from him; it’s what Mickey fell in love with first. “No, I didn’t wanna do it like this, but you come into my fucking home and we fuck  _ all _ weekend, and talk, and all this other shit… and I tell you I’m still in fucking love with you… and you drop this on me. How the  _ fuck _ else am I supposed to do this, Mickey?”

“Come with me,” Mickey blurts the words. Doesn’t even think, just spits it out.

It’s silent for a moment, then Ian laughs. It’s bitter. His eyes are glassy, and he shakes his head, taking a step away from Mickey. Ian doesn’t need to say it. The fucking irony here. Over six years ago, it was Ian asking Mickey to run away with him.

“Fuck you,” Ian breathes, head still shaking.

His chest is open, heart beating loudly behind broken ribs. Mickey shudders through a breath, “Run away with me. Me, and Lana —Lana’s girl. Come with me.” He needs to stop but he can't. He's scrambling.

Ian’s arms spread wide, gesturing around him, “I got my shit together, Mick. Got a job, a life… my fucking _family_. I can’t run away into the fucking sunset with you and live happily ever after. I don’t run away anymore. I grew up.”

“I know,” Mickey sighs.

“No you don’t!” Ian yells. It’s sudden, and his eyes are red and wide. Tears brimming up, Ian looks at him with a mix of desperation and anger. “You  _ don’t _ know… you haven’t fucking  _ been _ here!”

There are so many things that Mickey could say. He could defend himself until he was blue in the face, could tell Ian about the entire plan he and Svetlana had; he could pull the same shit that Ian had minutes before and beam the redhead right between the eyes. But he doesn’t, because  _ for what _ . Mickey nods, he pulls his jeans on, his shirt, his leather cut. He pulls his boots on, watching Ian watch him out of the corner of his eye. 

Before he leaves, he stops in front of Ian, looks at him, gets a real good look, and thankfully Ian lets him. He’s crying —Ian. Trying to hold it in, and Mickey feels that tingle in his nose, the sting in his eyes. He holds his breath to keep everything in check for now. 

Tentatively, Mickey reaches out, slides his hand around the back of Ian’s neck, scratching at the skin there. He opens his mouth to say something, but the words die on his tongue. He shouldn’t. Doesn’t want to make it worse than it already is. Doesn’t want to hurt Ian more than he already has. Everything is so fucked up and unfair.

Maybe in another life. Another time. Maybe they could’ve had something permanent. Something really fucking special. Maybe this is how it was always supposed to go. 

Mickey’s heart hurts; he drops his hand from it’s place on the back of Ian’s neck. Then, he inhales a sharp breath of surprise when Ian grabs him and kisses him, presses their foreheads together. Ian had always been a sappy fuck.

“I fucking hate you,” Ian whispers.

Mickey sniffs, hands grabbing Ian’s face as he kisses him again, which Ian returns with a soft sound. He keeps his eyes closed until he turns away from the redhead, not looking at him; can’t look at him. Mickey stares at the door, opens it, closes it behind him.

When Mickey gets to his bike, his eyes are stinging. He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, takes a deep breath. He shakes his head hard, scolding himself for… _everything_.

And then suddenly, “Mickey.”

 

* * *

 

He could feel himself shutting down, and did fuck-all to stop it. He felt his mind retreat into the background, felt his face fall to stone, his shoulders tense. Mickey rode his motorcycle fast . He let his body do it’s own thing, let it direct the handlebars, let it lean for turns. Shut everything else out. Shut it  _ out _ .

In prison, Mickey’d have to let himself go like this. He’d have to just… shut down. Shit gets real in prison, it’s hard. Some of the worst shit that Mickey had ever seen —and he’s seen really fucked up things in his life. Prison is a whole other level. The only way to get through that is to push it down, push it out, shut down. It’s how you survive without losing your fucking mind —and your soul.

So he goes through the motions. Hits up a corner he knows he can score some good coke. He doesn’t end up going home, ends up at the clubhouse. Mickey’s clenching his jaw as he parks his bike, following his feet. There’s heat in his belly that he almost allows to consume him, he almost allows himself to go back to six years ago to dig up the anger and rage that he buried there. But he doesn’t. 

Terry’s lounged back with a bottle in the clubhouse. Gray hair sticking up everywhere, natural snarl cracked between his lips, holding up an unlit cigarette. Mickey feels that heat rise to his throat, not responding when his father asks him where he’s been. Instead he sits at a table, throwing his baggy of coke down, watching his hands dump it out, watching them produce a dollar bill, rolling it up. Terry sits across from him.

“Asked you a fucking question,” years of smoking has given him that special kind of rasp to his voice, and Mickey knows that one day he’ll sound just like that.

Still though, Mickey doesn’t answer. He’s cutting and lining up the coke with his driver's license, even setting up a few for Terry before his mouth is finally opening and his tongue is working to form words. “Lana’s pregnant.”

Mickey doesn’t have to look up to know his father’s face slowly slips from stone to sick joy, then back to stone. “Finally knocked the bitch up, huh. Good. It’s about fucking time.”

There’s no need to correct him. He’ll never see the kid. “Figured we’d celebrate,” Mickey says.

Terry leaves, then comes back with a six pack of beers, letting them set heavily next to Mickey’s bottle of whiskey. “Where were you?” he asks again, this time expecting an answer, hard line to his voice.

Mickey finally raises his eyes away from the pretty lines of cocaine in front of him, addressing his father, “Milwaukee.” The lie is easy, but there’s a flutter in his belly that Mickey squashes immediately. Can’t wake back up again, can’t show anything. Terry will see, and if Terry sees, this shit is all fucking over. “Needed a break after you almost got Iggy fucking killed,” he adds. Might be a mistake, but his mouth is moving for him. “S’pect we’ll have to take care of that shit, huh.” You couldn’t just fuck with the Iron Eagles,  _ any _ of the Milkovich boys, and not expect some harsh retaliation.

The Terry Milkovich snarl makes itself known again, but for once he doesn’t say a damn word, thank fucking god. He takes the dollar bill that Mickey hands him, rails a line of coke before lighting up his cigarette. Mickey follows suit in the same order. 

He doesn’t think about it. Doesn’t want to think about it. The similarities of things. Ian used to tell him he wasn’t going to be like Terry, but — _ no; stop; shut it down _ .

Two generations of Milkovich men sit at the wooden table in the middle of the Iron Eagles clubhouse. Black hair looking hard at gray hair; snarls at snarls. It’s quiet for a minute before Mickey’s mouth is moving again, “You fucking owe me some stories, old man.”

“I don’t owe you shit,” Terry sucks at his cigarette, blows the smoke out at Mickey.

Mickey sniffs down the coke drip, rubbing at his prickly nose. The complete shutdown curbs Mickey's natural fear of his father, which isn't always the best thing. It's  _ never _ the best thing. But it helps sometimes, when he maneuvers around it just right. Terry hates disobedience from his boys, but he respects their drive, their flex of masculinity. It's a fine line that Mickey's learned how to walk. 

“Six years over a bad deal,” Mickey shrugs. “We don’t make bad deals.”

Terry rails another line. Mickey follows suit. “Club had too much heat,” he finally fucking admits. “Had to be you.”

Mickey clenches his jaw hard, stares down at the wooden table, sniffs back the drip again. All sour and toxic, it slides down his throat, numbing him there. Shut it down. “Why you been pulling a Howard Hughes all of a sudden?” He was met with a blank stare. Mickey rolled his eyes, “You've been laying low like a fucking hermit; the fucks going on?”

He doesn’t get answer right away; doesn’t get an answer at all, actually. 

“Done good, kid —the baby,” the words sound like they fall easily out of his father’s mouth, but Mickey knows the truth. “Finally a fucking man,” Terry finishes off his beer; then he gets up from his chair and walks away, down the hall to the dorms. Mickey clenches his jaw hard, so hard it hurts, hearing his father’s bedroom door close. He shakes his head, scratching at this chest, at the microphone taped to his skin there. 

“Fuck,” Mickey breathes. 

It makes him absolutely sick that at the praise from his father, there’s this broken little part of him that swells with pride. This part that he hates. Desperate for approval from his father, a neglected, abused little boy picking up any little scraps of love he can find on the floor under his father’s shoe. It disgusts him.

When he gets outside, he takes a walk, lighting up a cigarette. And then another. His hands are jittery from the combination of coke and irritation. Fucking wire. Fucking cops. Fucking Terry, most of all. Of course he wouldn’t get the confession he needed out of him. Of fucking course, when he actually needed something, he wasn’t going to fucking get it. Fuck all of this. 

Ian creeps into the back of his mind, and Mickey has to push him down too. There’s too much to think about, too much going fucking wrong. Ian… god, his body was still aching from the weekend, still felt the scratch of scruff on the back of his neck, fingers digging into his hips, that flip in his belly when Ian called him his, that look of absolute fucking hurt when Mickey told him he was leaving _ —stop; fucking stop.  _ He shuts it down. He has to.

It’s a shitty hotel two blocks away, stained floors and paint peeling off of walls, big motherfucker of a roach skittering across the floor. Mickey nods to the guy tweaking at the front desk before he takes the stairs up to the third floor. Knocks twice on 3B and waits for an answer.

Torres answers the door, and Mickey pushes past him as soon as he does, entering the dark, cramped room —it’s almost worse than the rest of the hotel, water stained ceiling and all. He ignores the glare from the agent, reaching under his shirt to tug at the wire, detangling himself and tossing the recording device on the hotel’s dresser. 

“How’d it go?” It’s Sanders talking; she’s sitting with paperwork at the small makeshift desk in the corner of the room, brows perched high on her forehead. “Are you high?”

“Fuck this,” Mickey hisses. “He’s not gonna fucking tell me  _ shit _ . Fuck this.”

“What happened?” Torres questions him. He picks up the records recorder that Mickey tossed, flipping it over in his hand as if he were looking for damages. “What do you mean he's not gonna—”

“He's not fucking talking,” Mickey cuts him off, spits the words out. “Doesn't trust me. I played the  _ only _ card I fucking got —I can't do this shit!”

It's quiet and tense in the room. Sanders watching Mickey; Torres watching Mickey too, then looking at each other like they're having a silent conversation. It makes Mickey's skin crawl, makes him feel like they don't believe him, like he didn't fucking even try to get the confession from Terry. They don't think he's willing to do this, they don't think he's willing to turn on his father, and by proxy the club. 

“I have to,” Mickey whispers under his breath, to himself. He has to do this. He has to. He _has_ to get the confession, he's got no other choice. He has to. 

“Mickey…” Agent Sanders sighs. “I know this must be difficult for you, but—”

He shakes his head, sitting on the edge of the bed. Lights up another cigarette, not bothering to ask if anyone minded, because fuck them. “I got it.”

Torres hesitates, “If you're unwilling to help—”

“I got it,” Mickey mumbles, forces the tension out from his shoulders as he blows out a cloud of smoke from his lungs. “Don't got a fucking choice. I just need more time to figure this shit out. I got it. Got eight months months right… I'll get it, and you can do whatever the fuck you want to that bastard, s’long as I get my shit.”

“We have a deal,” Torres tells him. “You hold up your end, we hold up ours.”

Mickey nods. It doesn't matter if they don't believe in him, it doesn't matter what the fuck they think. They're fucking feds, fuck them. 

Sanders drops whatever papers she's holding, rubbing circles into her temples, “Mickey, I hate to ask this, but is Ian Gallagher going to be a problem here?”

Just like that, tension is back in Mickey's shoulders, right across his back, he stares hard at the floor. “No,” is all he says. 

There's more of that tense silence, and without looking up, Mickey knows that Sanders and Torres are having more silent conversations. Then Torres kind of awkwardly says, “We staked out all weekend waiting for you.” The follow-up question is implied. 

Mickey sucks hard on his cigarette, then gets up from the bed. “Sounds like you need a fucking hobby.”

He doesn't miss the exasperated look Sanders sends Torres as he puts out his cigarette in a plastic ashtray just to light up a new one. He couldn't stay here, it was too close to the clubhouse. 

“Mickey, we don't care who you sleep with, we just need to know if he's going to be a distraction.”

The lie is instinctual, but unlike lying about women, he's lying about Ian. So it's toxic and acid in his mouth, "He's an old friend I hadn't seen in years. That's it.”

“You didn’t leave the apartment all weekend,” she said quietly.

Mickey glared hard, “We had a lot to talk about.”

Sanders doesn't look convinced. Mickey presses on, knowing he should shut up, knowing his overcompensation is transparent when he doesn’t shut up; he’s always had this problem. Can’t stop though. He points to his leather cut hanging from his shoulders, “Look, these colors don't fuck with that fag shit. This is in my blood, I was raised for this. I don't fuck with that, it ain't  _ right _ , okay? Ian’s not a distraction like that, he never was.”

Judas.

He wants to die. Just wants to turn to charcoal and ash, and die. Fucking _Judas_ , dig the knife into Ian’s back a little deeper, really give it to him this time. He wants to fucking die. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is shorter than the rest, with a new POV :)
> 
> Content warning: Mickey's unhealthy coping mechanisms. You know.

Svetlana closed her eyes, humming softly. A brush ran through her hair, gently scratching against her scalp, two legs settled on either side of her from behind, smooth and tan, adorably painted toes —bright daisy yellow, of course. She rested her hands on slim ankles, feeling the soft skin, grinning when those painted toes curled; Es was so ticklish, even from the slightest touch.

“You want me to braid it for you?”

She shrugged, “If you want.”

Es breathed a soft laugh behind her, “You know I do.”

Svetlana bit her bottom lip through a smile, feeling a soft pair of lips drop a kiss to the back of her shoulder, “So you like it shorter now?”

Another kiss before a playful nip at her skin, “Are you ever going to let that go? I only threw a fit because you didn’t warn me, you just showed up with it chopped off!”

“The words you’re looking for are temper tantrum,” Svetlana looked over her shoulder, giving her girlfriend a teasing look, that earned her a quick, soft kiss before Es gently made her turn her head back around.

“You caught me off guard,” Es said. “Doesn’t matter, though… it’s not your hair I’m in love with.”

Heat bloomed in Svetlana’s cheeks; she was glad she was facing away, never quite allowing herself to be comfortable in her vulnerability just yet. It got better with Es,  _ much _ better… she wasn’t a fucking robot, was able to express how she felt for the most part. Being soft, though… allowing to be pampered like this, and petted and given soft kisses… it felt wonderful, it did. It just took a lot. And it took a lot to be able to get to this point.

“You’re so corny,” Svetlana deflects out of habit.

Another kiss to the back of her neck, “You like it.”

She does. 

“We should go out tomorrow night,” Es says as she rakes her fingers through Svetlana’a hair, parting it, moving it into place. “Go downtown… have a date night, you know? Haven’t gone out in so long.”

Svetlana hums in response, eyes drifting closed from the feeling of fingers in  her hair, “Where do you want to go?”

They’ve always been careful about being together in public. But the good thing about being a couple girls out on the town is that society deems that acceptable friendship behavior. There’s been a couple times where they’ve bumped into one of Mickey’s brothers, or another club member… and it’s fine, no one is the wiser, no one even blinks. Doesn’t stop the mini heart attack, but Svetlana can talk herself down. 

She knows in the beginning she was overly cautious (for good reason). It took until her dad died before she could breathe. No one knows about six years ago, no one is privy to the horror show that Lana, Mickey and Ian were dragged through. She’s not entirely confident that anyone would have stopped Terry or her father from orchestrating it, either. 

This isn’t something she likes to think about. Can’t change the past, can’t go back in time and fix it. It happened. It was horrible. Svetlana cried for weeks, months, cried until she wasn’t physically able to cry any longer. And then she did what she did best. She told herself to suck it the fuck up. Which maybe wasn’t the healthiest. But it’s what she needed. It’s what she did.

“Jen has a family thing this weekend —she gave me a couple tickets to a show,” Es said. The perks of being a badass executive assistant, every once in awhile Es got thrown shit like that, tickets, fancy dinner reservations that would have been otherwise cancelled, etc.

After Es finished the two stubby French pigtails, Svetlana tuned to face her, “You’re  _ really _ gonna take me out, huh?”

Es grins wide, reaching out, pulling Svetlana forward as they fall back on the bed together in a soft fit of giggles, “Gotta treat my lady right!”

They lay there for a while, wrapped up in each other. It’s quiet and perfect, and Es pulls Svetlana closer, tugging the fluffy comforter up over them so they can escape into their own little space for a second. She smells like honey, and there’s a little hint of something else that’s sweet, but Svetlana’s never been able to tell exactly what it is. Maybe it’s just Es.

It’s when it’s quiet, when Svetlana’s mind wanders. Even now, even when everything is warm and perfect, and she’s wrapped up in the arms of the woman she loves. She sighs and squeezes Es a little tighter, pressing closer, pressing her nose to her girls throat to inhale her scent. Her eyes close, listening to Es’ little breathy noises of contentment.

“Are you sure you want to run away with me?” she asks. She feels this guilt pull at her gut about this on a near constant basis —feels like she’s dragging Es into something she never signed up for, into something that was messy and potentially dangerous. She felt selfish for that.

But Es just looks at her with her big brown eyes, so serious and true. “Of course,” she says.

Es doesn’t have family, not anymore. The girl comes with her own tragic, complicated backstory, and has always made her own family with people she’s surrounded herself with. That complicated backstory made her fierce and ready, made her smart and strong. She’s loyal, and loving, and Svetlana can’t help but count her fucking blessings each and every day.

“I don’t want to uproot you from your life here,” Svetlana says. 

“My life is with you —you’re my family,” Es says, and despite how fucking corny it was, Svetlana feels a little tingle behind her eyes from the sentiment.

They’ve been together for over three years now. Had a chance encounter at a fucking shoe store, of all places, and it burned brightly and quickly —because  _ lesbians _ . But it was real, it was so fucking real, more real than anything Svetlana had ever felt in her whole life. The burn never dimmed, never.

“You’re just sure you’re up for this shit?”

Es sighed, giving her a soft smile as she cupped her hand against the side of Svetlana’s face, “Mi sirenita, I grew up with a drug lord as a father… I was kidnapped three times before I turned fifteen, and you already know about how much of a bastard my first husband was. I think can handle running away to paradise with you and your homosexual husband.”

It wasn’t necessarily funny, but Svetlana couldn’t help but smile anyways. How did two girls like them, with fucked up beginnings, fucked up circumstances, find each other? Svetlana didn’t put much stock into shit like fate, but that’s what it had to be, right?

“I love you,” she told Es pressing a kiss to her lips.

Es giggled back at her, her voice muffled as she responded, “Good. I love you too.”

 

* * *

 

Mickey comes home after almost a week of “Milwaukee”. He comes home with a busted up face, and bloody knuckles, strongly smelling of sweat and alcohol. Svetlana is sitting at the kitchen counter with a cup of hot tea, when her stomach drops, watching with wide eyes as he casually —and a little stiffly— walks in, grabs an entire case of beer from the fridge, and then walks right out.

She sits there for a minute, making a face at no one in particular, because _what the hell_. Then she’s able to stand up and follow him to the guest room, where he’s been sleeping since he decided to officially move out of the clubhouse.

Mickey’s propped up in bed with the cardboard box of alcohol, dried blood smeared over his cheek and jaw. He grunts as he open a can, begins to suck it down like it’s his life force. What the fuck…

“It’s not even noon yet,” Svetlana can only think to say. She shakes her head, “What the fuck happened to you? What’s going on?”

He lets out a loud belch, crumples the can in his hand, tosses it, then goes for another. Before he opens this one however, he slurs out, “Ian says hi.”

Even Svetlana doesn’t know what she’s saying when she goes off, Russian spewing from her mouth, she yanks the case of beer out from under Mickey’s arm, stomping her freshly pregnant self down the hall, back into the kitchen. She’s still going off, ignoring Mickey’s hollering after her.

The worst possible scenario is, of course, the only thing she can think of right now. He and Ian must have gotten into it, must have beat the shit out of each other… again. Ian could never fucking  _ talk _ about anything to save his life, and Mickey is… fuck, Mickey is Mickey. 

Tears sting her eyes as she’s still yelling at Mickey —who followed her out to the kitchen. Bruised face twisted into an impatient glare, all he does is shrug at her, arms waving while he yells back at her that he can’t fucking understand “that Russian shit”.

Svetlana finally has the clarity to poke Mickey hard in the chest, “What did you do to him!?”

“Fuck you talking ‘bout?” Mickey drunkly scoffs. 

“THIS!” Svetlana’s waving her arms at Mickey, “I swear to god, if you hurt him—”

“Ian?” Mickey’s making a face at her, “I didn’t fucking  _ touch _ Ian!”

She stops short, inhaling a quick breath as she put the pieces together herself. They saw each other. Something happened, and now Mickey’s drowning his feelings in beer and violence, because coping is not his strong suit. Oh. 

Fuck.

It's quiet in the kitchen, and Mickey snatches the case of beer back from her, cutting off any further communication by retreating back into the hallway. She stands there until she hears the guest bedroom door close. 

Svetlana curses softly under her breath, following Mickey’s path. She opens the bedroom door softly this time, carefully entering the room. Mickey’s not even looking at her, back to where he was before, propped up in bed with his case of beer, an unfocused gaze towards the other side of the room.

“You have to lay low?” she asked.

“No,” Mickey murmured. “S’fight… couple fights. Nothin' serious.”

" _Looks_ serious."

"S'not. Ge'the fuck off it, Lana."

So that discussion was over, it appeared. “Shouldn’t have thought you’d…” Svetlana trailed off, not knowing what to say. “I’m sorry.” 

Mickey shrugged, “I’ont give a shit.”

This is a lie, of course. Both of them know, but neither one of them addresses it. “When did you see him?”

He sits for a moment, tongue slipping out to wet his lips, another crushed can thrown to the floor to join the other one. The corner of Mickey’s mouth pulls back in a bitter grin. He reaches up, clumsily wiping at his left eye with the back of his hand as he slurs, “I’s with him o’r th’ weekend.”

Svetlana leans against the doorframe, pulling her arms to fold under her chest, “What happened?”

Mickey shrugged, a little more clearly, sober enough for a moment he replies, “Doesn’t fucking matter, Lana.”

She sighs, “Obviously it does—”

“Can you just go?” Mickey finally looks at her. His eyes are rimmed in red and he looks much older than he is. Looks exhausted, strung out. She wonders if he’s on something other than the alcohol, or if it’s just pain —if it’s just heartache. It’s hard to tell sometimes, with Mickey. The guy could deal with any physical pain you threw at him, but emotional shit? He cope to save his life.

Her mother tongue wants to lash out, since she’s only trying to figure out what the fuck happened, but she pulls it back, pushes off of the doorframe. Before she turns though, Mickey says her name again, kind of soft this time, like he’s hoping she won’t hear him. But she does.

“He loves you,” Mickey tells her, pulling out another can of beer from his case. He cracks it open, and Svetlana’s vision goes blurry. “Wanted me t’ uh, ya know... loves you. Misses you, all th’shit.”

This pattern goes on for a week. 

And then another. 

And another. 

Mickey spirals, like he does. He digs deeper and deeper into drink and drugs to numb himself. It’s worse this time, Svetlana knows. She’s seen Mickey at what she thought was his worse. But this is more than that, and she knows its because there's too much _stuff_ , there's too much on his plate and whatever happened with Ian was the tipping point. He’s spending more time at the club, and Svetlana knows what that means, knows he’s with his girl, receding into his teenage years of desperation. This is rock bottom, and she doesn’t know how to pull him out.

Not that he’d want that. He doesn’t want to be _saved_ , he just wants to breathe, and Svetlana is not the one who can give him the air he needs. 

The guest room fills up with beer cans and bottles, fills up with glasses and ashtrays full of cigarette butts. Fills up with pill bottles and pipes. 

“You’re killing yourself,” She says at least every other day.

“Good,” he always replies.

 

* * *

 

There’s a box in Svetlana’s closet. It sits at the back of the top shelf; an old Nike shoe box that used to belong to Ian. She’s been feeling a pull to the box ever since Mickey got home, but has stopped herself from getting it down from it’s spot and going through the contents inside. She’s been scared it would hurt too much, that she’d get her heart broken by lifting the top of the shoe box up and peering inside.

It’s been five years since she’s looked in that box. And now it’s sitting on her bed, in front of her criss-crossed legs. Her fingers itch for a cigarette. She can’t. The baby.

“Okay,” Svetlana breathes deep before she opens the box.

Tears fill her eyes immediately, because the first thing looking up at her is an old polaroid. Svetlana had taken it, her arms barely long enough to fit all three into frame, but she managed it. 

Pressed tight; Mickey’s grinning like a fiend with his cigarette hanging from his lips, one hand holding a beer bottle, the other grabbing Ian’s jaw. Ian’s got both arms around Svetlana and Mickey’s shoulders, mouth open in a goofy laugh, eyes closed. Mickey had fired a slick comment at Svetlana before she took the picture and Ian had lost his shit over it. 

Then Svetlana looks at herself in the picture and she wipes a tear away, smiling a little. The arm that wasn’t taking a picture was giving Mickey the middle finger. God, she looked so fucking happy, despite all the other shit in her life that was fucked. The three of them  _ were _ happy…  when it was just them. They were free together, in their own little bubble. When it was just them, nothing else  _ existed _ .

There were more pictures. Some of her and Ian. Some of her and Mickey. Some of just her boys, then random ones of each. There’s a couple where Ian’s looking over at Mickey with those big adoring puppy eyes, or Mickey is leaning back against Ian, relaxed into his body like it were his home. 

It  _ was _ his home, to be fair. 

Then there’s some movie ticket stubs. An old carton of cigarettes. Ian’s old butterfly knife he gave to her. There’s a couple bullets she can’t remember the story behind, an expired condom that makes her laugh because that’s the story she  _ does _ remember.

There’s a couple notes that she and Ian had passed in class, and some other trinkets. The shoebox is packed full of pictures and memories, and Svetlana goes through and looks at each and every single item in that box, separating them into groups —pictures, papers, trinkets, etc. There’s no reason other than to see everything spread out on her bed in front of her.

Her favorite picture is that first one she looked at. She holds it in her hands, a soft smile spreading across her face. She’s sixteen and her boys are the most important people in her life. She’s sixteen and Mickey is an asshole but she would kill for him. She’s sixteen and Ian Gallagher has been trusted with her deepest darkest secrets. 

She’s sixteen and blissfully ignorant of what is yet to come.

 

* * *

 

Her stomach hasn't popped yet, not really. Only eight weeks along, and there's a slight  _ maybe _ bend, if anything. Svetlana stands in front of the bathroom mirror with the critical eye, fresh out of the shower, assessing her pregnant body. Nothing has really changed, though her bra is a little more snug. Same curves, same skin. Some days she wakes up and has to run to the bathroom, but… it's a little anticlimactic, if she were being honest. 

She's got someone else's little kidney bean sized baby inside of her, and it's a bit surreal. The doctor said she'd probably be hormonal and tired, but it hasn't hit her yet. Maybe hormonal is just her default. This whole experience is so alien to her. Her first pregnancy (maybe her only) is hosting another woman’s child. There’s a little worry in the back of her mind… what if she gets attached. Normally, she's really good at compartmentalizing things, but she worries still.

Svetlana runs a hand over her bare belly, tilting her head to the side, “How lucky are you,” she whispers. “Dodged a bullet.” 

Truth was, her only saving grace when six years ago happened was that she’d been secretly taking birth control.  God, her and Mickey having a child… what a fucking nightmare that would have been. Not only would they have completely screwed up that kid, but the club would have screwed it up even more. The last thing Terry Milkovich needed in his hands was a third generation roped into the Iron Eagles. 

Something warm hit her chest, Svetlana quickly took a breath, wiping at the splash of tear before glancing up at herself, at her face in the mirror.

“Knock it off,” She told herself. Took a deep breath, cleared her throat. “You’re fine.”

There’s a crashing sound coming from the kitchen. Broken glass on tile floor. Svetlana closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, hearing the predictable loud slurring curse that soon followed. He dropped something again.

She was going to have to do something about Mickey. She couldn’t deal with this shit anymore, and honestly she was worried about his fucking health. His mind. Three weeks of this shit, she’d thought by now it would have died down, but it hasn’t. 

She had to do something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot thank everyone enough for all the support and love you've shown this fic. 
> 
> It's been a hell of a ride, and we're still going -I know a lot of the stuff in here is heavy, and there's still more heavy shit in future chapters. I also know that some people have been concerned about if there is actually a light at the end of the tunnel, or am I just going to keep beating the fuck outta these poor kids.
> 
> Just know that I will always make it better in the end. Always. <3
> 
> Mi sirenita -my little mermaid (I know. It's cutesy and ridiculous and tbh I imagine Es saying this being a little shit, like when someone would say 'sweetie' in kind of a condescending voice; obviously its all in good nature. Think "oh my sweet summer child" lmao)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well!!! Thanks to [Christina](http://grumblesandmumbles.tumblr.com), there's going to be SIGNIFICANTLY LESS errors, like for real I mean wow, I cannot thank you enough, yous a real one lmao. Yaaaaay! :))
> 
> Lets get ready to be emotionally compromiiiised *ba ba ba bow bowwwww* (ya know, that air horn noise)

There’s been acid in his mouth for weeks. 

All Ian does is work, run, and sleep. Mickey almost felt like a fever dream, and he starts questioning if he was just that. He wonders if he made the whole fucking thing up, sometimes. He knows he didn’t. Knows how real it was, how real Mickey was. It would be a lot easier if it hadn’t been real though. 

Sometimes it’s hard to focus at work. But Ian manages to do it, manages to push all the other shit down and do his job. Can’t be out here risking people’s lives just because his love life is a fucking mess. So he does what he does best and he keeps his mouth shut tight, he works, he runs, he sleeps.

He  _ doesn’t _ think about Mickey. 

He  _ tries _ not to think about Mickey. 

All he fucking does it think about Mickey. 

An odd motorcycle passing by? Mickey. Some guy loudly swearing on the street? Mickey. He hears the brunette’s favorite songs on the radio more often, he presses his face into the pillow that Mickey laid on, searching for the last remaining scent he’d left there, until it’s gone. God, he missed his smell. Mickey’s everywhere, especially when he’s not there. It’s like someone kicked him back to six years ago, trying to cope by himself when Mandy told him about Mickey’s sentencing. God, those first few years had been fucking hell.

And then there’s Andrew. Ian feels ten types of guilt when he calls him. He feels this  _ rotting _ in his chest like he’s betraying Mickey, like he’s fucking cheating on him or something. Andrew comes over a couple times during those few weeks, and Ian fucks him hard. It’s… it is what it is. Which is nothing; it takes him longer than it should to come. It doesn’t scratch any itch, doesn’t make him feel better. Does the opposite, actually. 

He works. He runs. He sleeps.

Fiona is doing family dinner again. Real family dinner this time, it’s not a trap. So Ian goes, even though he really doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to fake a smile, doesn’t want to deal with the inevitable looks from his older siblings. Maybe he’s a masochist; he goes. Despite how everyone is so fucked up, he loves his family. Despite a lot of shit, he loves his family.

And it turned out not so bad at first, because his fake smile melted into a real one.

But that was at first. And then when he stepped outside to take a minute, away from the Gallagher chaos, it all came crashing down.

“What’s been going on with you?” It’s Debbie that catches Ian out on the front stairs smoking. She sits with him, leaning her shoulder against his.

His kid sister isn’t a kid anymore, but to Ian she always will be. Wild red hair pulled up on top of her head and full cheeks, she leans her temple on her fist, elbow on her knee, as she stares over at him, expecting an answer. The question is general, not pointed. They haven’t seen each other in a while, and that sucks.

Ian shrugs it off, “Not much,” he lies.

“Bullshit,” Debbie grins at him.

He breathes a little laugh, but it feels incomplete. This is probably the moment when he should start talking. Probably the time when he should open up and tell Debbie everything, see what she has to say. There’s moments when she has this wisdom beyond her years, even when she was a little kid, she’d come up with some profound ass shit.

Instead he shrugs again, “Just been working a lot.”

Debbie gives him that look for a moment, her eyes narrowed in a pointed and doubtful look, “You seem sad,” she says.

He sucks hard on his cigarette and blows the smoke out before he finally —partially— surrenders, “Just shit with this guy.”

“What shit?”

Another drag from his cigarette, searching for careful words, “Got too attached and the guy’s moving kind of shit.”

“How far away?” His little sister asks.

“Far,” Ian answers. If he knows Mickey, he knows where he’s going, and that shit isn’t a simple road trip. “Out of the country.”

She makes a sympathetic sort of noise, “I didn’t even know you were seeing anyone.”

Everything is a  _ lie _ , and Ian is the master of secrets. 

Harshly, he chews on his bottom lip for a moment. There’s a pull in his gut, a sting in his eyes and all he wants to do is break the fuck down. He holds out for a minute though, holding his breath, telling himself it was okay, that he needed to calm the fuck down. 

But then Debbie rests a hand on the back of his shoulder, his cigarette falls from his fingers, head falling between his shoulders as he cries. Hot tears and heavy breaths, little sister rubbing his back. It’s pathetic and embarrassing, but it hurts too much to care.

He hears the front door open and close, and he wants to stop crying, wants to sit up straight but he can’t. There’s soft talking, and Ian’s covering his face now, pressing fingertips into his eyes, he wants to stop so fucking bad, but Mickey’s  _ leaving _ . He had to go six fucking years without him, how the fuck is he supposed to go six more —how’s he supposed to go the rest of his fucking life?

He loves Mickey. Never stopped loving him, never will stop loving him. He knows that. He’s known that since he was an awkward fifteen year old, all arms and legs with a big gay crush on his best friend. He’s known since before he swore he was dreaming, watching with wide eyes as Mickey looked at him different for the first time. Ian felt like Mickey had reached in through his chest and grabbed him by the lungs.

It was never a phase with Mickey. It was never overwhelming puppy-love, over-dramatized kind of infatuation. It was fucking  _ real _ . And that was the part that Lip and Fiona never seemed to truly understand. It was real.

Debbie gets up, and there’s someone else sitting there. Ian recognizes the scent of Fiona’s shampoo right away; he takes a deep breath, scrubbing at his face, forcing himself to stop this time. He almost loses it when she’s wrapping an arm around him, pressing her cheek into his shoulder.

“It’s just me,” Fiona whispers. “What’s going on?”

“I’m losing my shit,” Ian whispered back.

“What happened?”

Ian shook his head, still hiding his face in his hands. The words wouldn’t come, though his mind screamed at him to open his fucking mouth. _ Make your life easier _ , his mind begged,  _ just fucking tell her, just spit it the fuck out, what the fuck is wrong with you _ ?

Fiona would be happy that Mickey was running away. She’d be relieved, she’d say something untrue like “ _ you’re better off this way _ ,” just like she did six fucking years ago when Mickey got locked up. She would be happy about what was killing Ian from the inside out.

“Do you want to talk to Lip? Want me to get him?”

He talks before he thinks this time, “I don’t want to talk to anybody, I just want it to go back to how it was! It wasn’t great, but it was fucking good, Fi. I knew how to deal with that shit. He fucked it up, he fucked  _ everything _ up!” Crying again.

Fiona’s rubbing between his shoulders, not needing the clarification that Ian was talking about Terry so thank fuck Ian didn’t have to say his name, “I know.” 

“I hate him,” Ian spat out harshly. “He took… I want him dead… never wanted anyone dead but-” 

“I know,” Fiona said. “I’m sorry.”

“He took Mickey away from me,” Ian whispered. 

“I know,” Fiona said again. Ian can’t remember the last time she talked to him like this, the last time he heard her voice to soft and sympathetic, like she’d let all her judgment fall away. It was surreal and unexpected.

Ian took a deep breath, “I still love Mickey.” She probably didn’t believe him, probably thought it was just old emotions coming back, probably thought Ian was out of his fucking mind. But Ian tapped his fist against his chest, letting Fiona in on a little secret, giving her just this one. “He’s right here,” he said. “He’s always right fucking here.” 

And now he’s leaving, Ian’s is losing his fucking shit… he can’t do it again, he can’t lose Mickey again.

She was quiet that time, just kept her arm around Ian, still there for him. He briefly wondered if he was dreaming the whole thing. Maybe he was passed out drunk on the Gallagher couch, and all this shit was in his head. 

Regardless of this being reality or not, Fiona stayed with him for a long time, and then when Ian was ready to take a deep breath and stand up, she wouldn’t let him go home, not like this. He listened, for once. And maybe sleeping in his old bedroom wasn’t the greatest idea, because it brought back a lot of memories of him and Mickey all curled up, quietly kissing and touching each other. But it was all he had to hold onto now.

 

* * *

 

Ian slept past noon the next day; something he hasn’t done in years. He woke up with his legs tangled up in blankets, a familiar pain in his neck, and with a sour taste in his mouth. But when he sat up, slipping his legs over the edge of the bed, none of that mattered. None of that mattered because someone was watching him, sitting just a few feet away on the bottom bunk of his brother’s beds. His heart, his stomach, and his shoulders sank.

The last time he saw Svetlana, was months ago. They ran into each other at the fucking Kash n Grab, of all places. It had been an awkward run-in by the drink cooler. Ian had been going for a bottle of water; she had a gallon of milk in her hand, eyes wide as saucers. Soft, hushed hello’s, and a nagging pull in the pit of his stomach to say something else… but of course he hadn’t. She hadn’t either.

Svetlana already had tears in her eyes, just looking at him.

“Lana,” Ian croaked, stupidly.

“You’re scaring everyone,” was all she said. “Fiona called me last night.”

Ian couldn’t process it; couldn’t do much but frown, because what the fuck Fiona was thinking, “What?”

“She said you’ve lost weight, barely eat… you’re not around anymore.” There was a beat of silence, then she added, “I know how you get, so…”

Ian swallowed hard, his hands curling in the sheets. Had he really lost weight? “She shouldn’t’ve called you,” he sighed.

Svetlana arched a brow at him, “Well too fucking bad. Now get dressed, I need your help getting Mickey’s shit together.”

Ian didn’t need to be told twice. He ignored the drop in his belly, the twist of anxiety in his throat. What’s happened to Mickey? Ian is well acquainted with Mickey’s lack of coping skills, so he can only imagine the worst . He quickly gets dressed as Svetlana waits for him, not bothering to look for clean clothes, it doesn’t fucking matter, he has to  _ go _ .

She didn’t speak until they got into her car —a little blue two-door with dark tinted windows. “I haven’t seen him this bad before. Well not since... you know.” 

Everything in Ian sinks again; his heart hurts under his chest. Seeing Mickey sad and hurt was bad enough, but if Svetlana’s saying he’s really fucking bad, Ian can’t even imagine what shape he’s in. It hurt to picture, hurt knowing that he was going to have to face that head-on. 

“The club had to ride to St. Louis for a weekend meeting with the Diablos,” Svetlana explained. “But not Mickey.”

“Not Mickey?” Ian questioned.

She nodded, “They couldn’t risk bringing him with the state he’s in right now.”

Ian shook his head, cursing under his breath, “Jesus Christ.” If Mickey got benched from a meeting, it was worse than Ian thought.

Svetlana nodded again as she drove, “I don’t even think you can call it a bender anymore, it’s been nothing but coke, whiskey and pussy for three weeks straight… shit,” she winched, looking over at Ian. “I’m sorry.”

Ian felt his eyes sting. “S’okay,” he mumbled. 

“It’s not okay,” She sighed.

He nodded, “I know.”

He always knew the life he was signing up for, when they first started becoming more than best friends. He  _ always _ knew. But it never took away the sting, the hurt in his heart. Yeah, it sucked that someone elses hands and mouth were all over Mickey, it fucking sucked that someone else was having sex with him. It was awful. But when Mickey went out of his way to fuck women, when he did it when he didn’t “have to” do it… it was self-imposed hell. Drugs, liquor, and women. It was impossibly difficult to watch. 

Ian scrubbed his hands over his face, clearing his throat of that tickly sensation that came before the tears, “Where is he?”

“Passed out at the house,” she answered. Upon Ian’s hesitation she cleared up, “My house… our house.”

Ian nodded, keeping silent.

She looked over at him again, giving a little grin, trying to ease the tension, “You two are exhausting.”

Despite himself, Ian breathed a small laugh, “Yeah.”

“He can’t do what he needs to do when he’s like this,” she said after a minute. She said it quiet and thoughtful —worried. She was worried. “He can’t think.” 

Ian frowned, “What does he need to do?”

They were at a stoplight; Svetlana looked at him, full confusion in her eyes, “Didn’t he tell you anything?”

He swallowed hard, “Told me he was leaving with you. For good.”

She sighed this long, drawn out breath of exhaustion, shaking her head, “So he didn’t explain anything—he didn’t tell you  _ everything _ that’s been going on?”

“No…” Ian trailed off; did he give Mickey the chance to explain? Fairer question: Had Mickey even  _ planned _ on trying to explain?

“I guess we’re doing this now instead of later.” Svetlana pulled over into a convenience store parking lot, tossing Ian a carton of cigarettes, “Smoke one, I can’t with this fucking baby in me.”

Ian went ice fucking cold, his eyes big as saucers while his fingers gripped the cardboard box. There was no fucking way he heard her correctly, there was no fucking way he’d missed something that fucked up and huge when Mickey came to him, no way Ian could’ve missed something like that in Mickey’s eyes. 

God, no. Please, if there was any fucking justice in the world, in the universe… 

He opened his mouth, feeling his eyes prick with tears, “Lana…”

“I’m surrogating,” she said quickly. Ian closed his eyes, thanking whatever higher power there might be, “Oh my god, he didn’t tell you about this either?” She huffed. “You two really didn’t do anything but rub your dicks together all weekend, huh?”

God he missed her so fucking much. Ian let out the breath he was holding, feeling the brimmed tears slide quickly down his cheeks; he laughed, shaking his head. He took a painful breath while his fingers let the cigarette carton slip onto his lap, “I thought…”

Svetlana reached over, sliding her hand into Ian’s, squeezing him, “Listen. We’re done with violent men controlling our lives, okay? This was all my decision. It’s a paycheck, that’s it.”

Ian kept nodding, “Okay — okay, good.”

“Smoke,” she prompted.

Ian immediately collected himself enough to pop a cigarette between his lips, taking the offered lighter as he rolled his window down a bit. As soon as that smoke filled his lungs, and he sank back into the passenger seat a little, he felt his shoulders relax, felt his body trying to soak up and process everything that had just happened since he woke up in his old bed. Surreal didn’t even begin to cover it.

Six years. And here he and Svetlana were. Six fucking years. He missed her so much and the paranoid part of him screamed to get out of the car, put some distance, try to protect her in some way. But she looked relaxed. She wasn’t looking over her shoulder, wasn’t nervously picking her nails. She was calm, for the most part.

He couldn’t help it though. He cleared his throat before he asked, “Is this… are we okay sitting here?”

She nodded, “No one bothers me anymore, especially since Terry barely leaves the clubhouse, and my dad's dead.”

Ian nodded back; took another drag off his cigarette. Good. She deserved that, deserved to be able to live her fucking life for once —well, as much as she can, given the circumstances. And come to think of it, Ian can’t remember the last time he’s seen Terry around South Side. It wasn’t a common occurrence, but it happened… and the more Ian tried to think of the last time, the more he came up empty. 

Svetlana took a deep breath, turning in her seat to face Ian as she spoke, rather abruptly and rather factually, like always. “Mickey is working with cops —feds. To get Terry locked up for good.”

Ian blinked, “ _ What _ ?”

It didn’t even process, because in what world would a Milkovich ever work with fucking feds. 

And then he sat there, for probably an hour, listening to Svetlana explain everything. What her father and Terry did to this family (a sick feeling in the pit of Ian’s stomach), how Mickey is working with feds (Ian’s chest constricting at the thought), wearing a wire and all this other shit that didn’t really sound like something he should be allowed to do, but Ian didn’t know how this shit worked in real life… and the feds seemed desperate enough to rope Mickey into their scheme of taking Terry down. 

It almost seemed like Svetlana was talking about a different person other than Mickey —this shit didn’t sound like him at all. Mickey… working with cops —with  _ feds _ ? In what fucking world?

What Mickey was doing was (obviously) dangerous as hell. He was working with the direct enemy of not only his family, but of the  _ club _ . It was desperate, and could be really fucking reckless —which is not unfamiliar to Mickey’s behavior when he gets shoved into a corner. 

And Mickey had been shoved in a corner for six years. Well, for the entirety of his life, but the last six had to have been the breaking point. 

Honestly, it fucking terrified Ian. His stomach instantly tied up in knots, jaw clenching hard as he listened. If Mickey got caught with that wire on… 

“I don’t like it. I  _ hate _ it, but it makes sense — and Mickey’s hell-bent on doing it this way.”

“Because no one would ever think he’d do it,” Ian murmured mostly to himself, trying to drink all this information in, trying to understand it. “In what world would Mickey  _ willingly _ strap a wire to his chest?”

“Right. So I’ve had to just fucking accept it, because you know he sure as fuck doesn’t listen to me,” Svetlana admitted, rolling her eyes. “The feds get Terry, and Mickey gets everything we need to start over —except money.” She sighed, gesturing down to her belly.

Ian couldn’t talk; he just nodded and swallowed hard. Mickey had to be ten kinds of fucked up over this shit alone. And he never saw it, he never saw that he was dealing with other shit —bigger shit, more important shit. He should’ve seen it.

“H-he’ll be okay,” Ian didn’t know if he was saying it to himself or Svetlana. He didn’t even know if he believed his own words. God, he felt sick to his stomach.

“Of course he will,” Svetlana replied. Ian didn’t know if he believed her either.

The rest of the ride was in silence. Ian smoked another cigarette right after the first, making sure to blow the smoke out of the window, away from Svetlana. Fuck, she was pregnant. He had a million and one questions —who was the couple, were they nice, were they properly compensating Svetlana for all this, did she need company when going to the doctor's… question after question died on his tongue. 

Then when they finally got to the house, Ian felt all the tension bleed into his spine, curling around his shoulders. The reality of what he was doing, where he was, was finally punching him in the face. This was a potentially terrible decision on Svetlana’s part. Even though the club was elsewhere, it made Ian’s skin crawl to think of the possible consequences. 

And the house… Mickey’s house — Mickey and Svetlana’s house. It was small, but nice. She’d kept the front flowers watered, kept the lawn clean. Ian’s eyes went all wide as he stared at the structure; it was weird that he’d never seen it before, never even drove by. It was a really nice house, for South Side at least. Debbie would call it cute. Debbie would actually love it; he could see her fawning over it, wistful and mooning over the crooked three in the middle of the house number. 

“You okay?” 

Ian nodded, following Svetlana’s lead to get out of the car, glancing at Mickey’s bike that was parked off to the side of the driveway; his heart fluttered a little seeing it. He wanted to reach out and touch it, wrap his hand around the handlebar where Mickey’s hand always rested. Just because. He didn’t though. He followed her like a lost dog, slow but curious. This all felt so surreal — verging on wrong. He was supposed to keep his distance, he was supposed to have figured out a way to live his life without them. 

_ Supposed _ to. Never did.

Mickey’s boots were kicked off by the front door, his cut laying over the arm of the off-white living room couch. Ian followed Svetlana deeper into the house, eyes darting everywhere, taking it all in. Simple but nice, comfortable… Svetlana kept a nice house. 

Ian sighed long and drawn out when Svetlana lead him to the guest room. It stunk like cigarettes and stale beer. A lump under the blankets in the middle of the small bed moved slow with each of Mickey’s breaths — curled up under there and passed out, dead to the fucking world. Ian shook his head, looking around at the cans and bottles, the dirty laundry.

“I try to come in here and clean this shit up, but he…” she sighed next to him. “You know him.”

“Yeah,” Ian croaked. 

This was bad. This hurt like a bullet to the gut.

He looked over at Svetlana, “Can I get a garbage bag?”

She nodded and left for a moment. Ian took that moment to step more into the room, to look around at the mess that Mickey had made. Right there on the nightstand was a baggy of coke, some pills, and four empty beer cans. Fuck. 

Ian sighed heavily, going to the only window in the room, pulling it open to let some fresh air in. Mickey didn’t stir even once; Ian made himself leave him be for now, forced himself to not peel that blanket back and see what state Mickey was in.

Svetlana came back with a garbage bag; Ian got to work.

_ Frank didn’t hit his kids all that much, but when he did, he usually zoned in on Ian. Ian and Frank… they never got along. Ever. It started like it usually did, over something stupid. This time Ian had the audacity to call out Frank on his bullshit at the wrong time, and walked away from the incident with a black eye (Frank earned a busted nose). _

_ He hated him. Truly fucking hated him. Ian winced, hissing from the shock of the frozen bag of peas as Mickey pressed it to his throbbing face. “Fuck,” he cursed between his teeth. _

_ “I know,” Mickey murmured. “Just give me the fucking signal, he’s dead.” _

_ Ian looked at Mickey with his good eye; he could’ve held the bag of peas on his own, but evidently that was Mickey’s job, “You’re not killing him.” _

_ “Could,” Mickey arched a brow at him. “What the fuck is he good for, huh?” _

_ Ian couldn’t help it, he gave Mickey a lopsided grin. “You’re so romantic.” _

_ Mickey sighed at him, his other hand coming up to cup the side of Ian’s head; Ian leaned into the touch, his eye slipping closed. He loved Mickey’s hands; his touch. Even the most basic, simple grazehe got lost in, desperate for anything he could get from Mickey. Because they couldn’t have a normal relationship, they had to savor those moments, those little touches. Ian wished he could bottle them up. _

_ Ian didn’t need to say it; Mickey scratched his fingertips into his hair, giving him what he needed, before he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Ian’s forehead, then his temple, then finally his mouth. It was quiet and simple; Ian wanted more, but Mickey had already leaned away. _

_ “Thanks,” Ian said; came out all quiet. Thanks for the frozen peas, thanks for not killing my piece of shit dad, thanks for trying to make me feel better, thanks. _

_ “Don’t need to say that shit,” Mickey sucked on his teeth. Then a beat of silence, of blue looking at green. Mickey added, “Always gonna take care of you. You know that.” _

_ He did know. Mickey was always there putting Ian back together, always there to gather the pieces, even when he had eight million other things on his plate. But that didn’t stop his heart from swelling, didn’t stop the butterflies from going rabid in his stomach. Ian reached for the frozen peas, taking them away, tossing them to the side. He quickly closed the space between him and Mickey, slotting their mouths together. _

Everything went into the trash bag. Ian dumped bottles, cans, wrappers, baggies, anything that looked like a red flag should be perched on top. There was probably a half ounce of weed in a jar under the bed… Ian left that there, that was fine. Too dank to trash. 

Svetlana offered to help, but he declined; he felt like he needed to do this himself, and if Mickey was going to rage at anyone for throwing his shit away, Ian preferred that it be him.

So Svetlana gave Ian one last look, a little smile, then left the room, closing the door behind her. 

Mickey barely stirred. Stretched in his sleep once, the blanket slowly moving, but he didn’t wake up. He must have been really fucking out of it; Mickey was a notoriously light sleeper and the empty beer bottles were less than quiet. Ian stopped himself many times from dropping the bag and going to the brunette; he used this time while cleaning to think, to plan his words, his actions.

What was he going to say to Mickey, should he just go? Should he just clean this shit up and leave — would it be better that way? 

His heart told him the answer was the most obvious in the fucking world. His head told him to slow down and think about what was happening in Mickey’s life, what was happening in his  _ own _ life, and how right now it didn’t mesh well, had the potential for a hell of an explosion.

Nothing mattered when Ian finally finished throwing the trash away, finished putting Mickey’s dirty laundry in the basket where it belonged. Nothing mattered when he sat on the edge of the bed, carefully pulling back the blanket to reveal Mickey’s sleeping face, not relaxed at all, his brows drawn tightly in his sleep. Nothing mattered when he touched the side of Mickey’s face, thumb brushing over his cheek. 

Sometimes the hardest decisions in life can be achingly easy. Fuck the consequences. When it’s worth it, it’s worth it. And it really is  _ that _ simple. It seems like it shouldn’t be, but it is. 

It was Mickey’s turn to be taken care of. Mickey’s turn to be pulled back together, to have Ian hold frozen peas against his bumps and bruises. 

The toxins that Mickey’s been pumping himself with are presenting themselves through the dark circles under his eyes, the dryness of his lips, the shallow breath. Ian touches the gold chain around Mickey’s neck, feeling the hard rope texture under his fingers. He feels his eyes sting and water. 

He hates seeing him like this, he hates himself for this. 

Mickey’s eyes might have slowly cracked open, but when Ian finally got to see those blues, they were glazed over and unfocused. He just laid there, staring up at Ian. God, it was fucking scary seeing Mickey like this, seeing him not in control of himself, just laying there on a shitty futon. He looked… almost like a stranger. Svetlana was right, it was really fucking bad this time. 

Everything was piling up on Mickey; Terry, the cops, leaving, having been locked up for so long — being put there by his own father, Ian, wearing a wire, turning his back on everything he was brought up to believe. Mickey was breaking down. And if Ian didn’t know before this very fucking moment, he knew now. He couldn’t let Mickey do this alone. He couldn’t just walk away from this shit, seeing Mickey like this, now knowing everything that he was up against. If their roles were reversed… Mickey wouldn’t hesitate, wouldn’t even question. 

Ian let himself cry this time, staring right back down at Mickey. He couldn’t look away. 

Mickey blinked at him. And then again. For a brief second, there was a flash of recognition in his eyes, right before he slowly reached up towards Ian, fingers bumping clumsily against Ian’s cheek.

His stomach fluttered; Ian covered Mickey’s hand, pressing it flush to his skin so the brunette could feel that he was real, that he was there. That he wasn’t going anywhere. 

“Mick, what’d you do to yourself?”

Mickey wet his lips slow, lazy. He blinked again, slurring with a thick voice, “Sh-shouldn’t be here.”

Ian shook his head, climbing in next to Mickey. He was dead weight, when Ian moved him, pressing close to him; Mickey let himself be moved, his eyes widening, becoming more clear, more aware. He was getting ready to panic. 

“It’s okay, I promise,” Ian whispered. “We’re okay.”

He pulled the blanket over them, making a bubble. Just them. Ian held Mickey’s face, brushed his fingers into his hair. Mickey closed his eyes, head dipping down while he shook his head. His mouth worked like he was trying to pull words out, but no sound followed.

Ian kissed his forehead. Kissed it again, kissed the top of his cheek, the corner of his mouth. “Look at me.” Mickey did. Ian put his hand over Mickey’s heart, pressing firmly against his chest, “You don’t need to do this to yourself.”

Mickey’s mouth moved from side to side, his eyes all glassy, but Ian couldn’t tell if it was from the drugs or not. 

“Let me take care of you,” Ian said. “Get this shit out of your system so we can make a plan and get that motherfucker gone.”

There was a silent question in Mickey’s glassy eyes, in the arch of his brow. A flash of the real Mickey, of clear eyes and Milkovich rage in his jaw. “You’re not in this.”

Ian held Mickey tight, unwavering in his response. It was natural. It was the clearest he’s felt in weeks, “I can’t watch you leave again. I don’t want to live the rest of my fucking life without you, I  _ can’t _ . I love you.”

A frown; glassy eyes, “What’re you saying?”

Ian shrugged, “I’m in.”

 

* * *

 

The detox was rough. Days of Mickey sweating and shaking, hovering over the toilet while Ian rubbed his back. Surprisingly though, Mickey never once asked for anything to take the edge off. He never complained any more than aching all over and feeling sick to his stomach. There had been a few times where he snapped at Ian and Svetlana, but overall he fucking took it like a champ.

Ian took time off work — vacation days that he’d been saving up that he would inevitably never use anyways. Most of that time was spent taking care of Mickey, making sure he drank nothing but water or juice, making sure he was doing okay. He was hanging in there, and would be just fine, but Ian was being overly cautious.  

Between trying to sleep it off, and being bent over the toilet, Mickey tried his best to talk Ian out of getting involved. But the empty threats of bodily harm, the glares, and the cold shoulder did nothing to change Ian’s mind. 

Mickey would be propped up in bed, bags under his eyes, shaking his head at Ian, “It’s bad enough I’m wearing a fucking wire,” he would say. “I don’t need you getting in this shit, this doesn’t have fuckall to do with you. This isn’t stupid shit we did as kids, Ian, you can’t just flash your pretty boy smile at my fucking  _ dad _ and expect him to hand you a signed confession.” His tone would be harsh, it would bite. 

Nonplussed, Ian would shake his head at Mickey, reach for his hand to hold, “I’m with you.”

“Ian.”

“Mick.”

“I can’t do what I need to fucking do if I’m worrying about you,” Mickey whispered. “If something happens to you… I can’t…”

It’s a conversation that happened  _ multiple _ times. Ian would slide his fingers between Mickey’s, giving him an arched brow, “Lana said you were fucked up for three weeks—“

“Lana needs to mind her own fucking business—“

“Mickey. You  _ are _ her business. And you  _ weren’t _ able to do what you needed to for those three weeks, you got fucking benched from St. Louis.”

“I was thinking.”

“You were shutting down.”

Mickey would be silent, would look away from Ian as he said, “Want me to thank you for picking up the pieces or something?”

“No,” Ian would sigh. “I want you to be okay. And I want you to take me with you. I’m not doing it again, I’m not watching you fucking leave again Mickey, I can’t do it, I can’t survive that again.”

And then Mickey would kiss Ian. He would kiss him soft, then hard, then soft again, foreheads pressed together, blue would meet green and Mickey would sigh in resignation.

“You asked me to go with you,” Ian pointed out. 

“I panicked.”

“You love me.”

_ “Look at me,” Mickey’s busted, bloody hands held into Ian’s face. His fingers slipped a little but he held on. _

_ It was shadowy in the alley they were in, tucked behind a dumpster. The smell of rotted trash would have made Ian gag if he weren’t in fight-or-flight mode, but he did as Mickey told him and looked into searching, intense blue eyes. He found his center there, found his footing. Mickey had a cut on the top of his cheek, a scrape on his jaw. Ian wanted to kiss them better. _

_ “You gotta fucking go,” Ian breathed hard. The freezing air turning his breath into soft, desperate clouds between them. _

_ “You okay?” Mickey asked, ignoring him. _

_ “Mick!” Ian glared. Now was not the fucking time for Mickey to be checking on him. His own fist was throbbing a little, and his lip was bleeding, but he was fine. _

_ Mickey shook his head, pulled Ian towards him. They kissed; Mickey tasted like blood and cigarettes; Ian grabbed onto Mickey’s jacket, not wanting to let go but knowing he had to.  _

_ Ian broke for air and gently pushed at Mickey. “You gotta lay low, go!” _

_ Mickey shook his head, grabbing at Ian again. Kissed him hard, licked into his mouth. Of course Ian was helpless against Mickey’s lips, his tongue. It hurt a little, but Ian ignored the slight sting; he could survive kissing with a split lip. He melted against Mickey, fingers seeking out the chain draped around his neck, tugging on it. Mickey groaned. Ian groaned back.  _

_ This time Mickey broke it off, slowly though, until he could press his forehead against Ian’s, until he could wrap his hand around the back of Ian’s neck; they pressed close together.  _

_ There were a thousand things Ian could say, but none of them mattered because… this is who Mickey had to be. He wasn’t even officially in the club yet, but he still worked for them. Taking care of shit when a kid tried to scam the club, tried to get out of payment. Couldn’t have the older members beating on kids. So jobs were passed down to the generation after them… and Terry loved to volunteer his son whenever possible. Ian, of course, had a hard time just standing by and watching when Mickey got into it — especially when it was two against one. Wasn’t fair. Mickey could fight like a motherfucker but Ian wasn’t going to just stand there with his hands in his pockets. _

_ “People saw, you gotta go,” Ian sighed. Then there were sirens in the distance. Ian cursed under his breath. His eyes stung, wondering how long Mickey was going away this time. _

_ “What about you?” Mickey asked.  _

_ “They don’t give a damn about me,” Ian replied. The cops wouldn’t pick Ian up for this shit, but they’re always happy to take a Milkovich on a little trip downtown.  _

_ “I know,” Mickey breathed. He didn’t move though, didn’t let go.  _

_ “Mick—” _

_ “I love you.”  _

_ That was the first time Mickey said it. It wasn’t the first time Ian felt his heart drop from something Mickey said, but it was the first time Ian felt dizzy from it. It was the first time he lost his breath from the brunettes words.  _

_ In a matter of days, Mickey would get picked up. He’d be gone for four months. _

The final discussion about Ian’s involvement happened in the middle of a Thursday, when Svetlana was at work and Ian had brought some groceries to the house. He’d been putting the bags down on the kitchen table when a hand curled over his shoulder and spun him around.

Ian smirked at Mickey, looking him up and down. The color was back in his face, no more shaking and cold sweats, no more pained frowns from an aching body, nothing. “What’s up?”

Mickey gave him a once-over in return, crowding Ian’s space. He didn’t say anything, just pushed Ian backwards, making him stumble back a little and land on one of the kitchen chairs. Ian grinned wide at Mickey — they hadn’t really done much else besides touching on each other and kissing, Mickey hadn’t been up to it; Ian couldn’t blame him, the guy had felt like absolute shit for days.

But that was then. This was now.

Still, Mickey was silent, his face serious, but Ian saw that glint in eyes eyes. Ian leaned back in the chair, staring right back at Mickey. He made a move to open his mouth and speak, but Mickey curled his fist in Ian’s shirt as he straddled Ian’s lap. His eyes were so focused, so blue and intense as he invaded Ian’s space again. Ian slid his hands up Mickey’s thighs, scratching at the denim that covered the skin he ached to touch.

When Mickey finally spoke, he was quiet and clear, “You’re really gonna drop everything and leave your family? You’re ready for that shit? I’m not coming back, Ian. Ever.”

Ian swallowed hard. Not because it would be difficult to leave them —because it  _ would _ be difficult to leave them. But also… he swallowed hard to swallow the guilt down. Because yes.  _ Yes _ , he’s ready to leave his family behind —ready to leave fucking Chicago behind. He needed a restart  _ — they _ needed a restart. Wipe the slate clean, wipe away the bad shit. 

A chance. What they needed was a fucking  _ chance _ . 

It seemed so idealistic, and Ian was all too painfully aware of that, but Mickey was it. Mickey was home. Mickey was everything he ever fucking wanted and needed. Yes. He’s ready. As difficult as it would be, he was  _ ready _ .

“Yes,” Ian said. He slid his hands up to rest on Mickey’s hips, pulling him closer.

“Why?”

The question took Ian off guard, but his answer was clear. He paused, looking at Mickey. “Because I fucking love you… because you’d do it for me, no question.”

Mickey sighed, looking down for a moment, “I didn’t before.”

Ian took Mickey’s chin, tilting, making him look up again, “You know this is different. Back then, if it were different, you would’ve gone with me.”

Mickey nodded, because Ian was right and they both knew it. “You can’t tell them where we’re going.”

“I know.”

“Can’t write letters.”

“I know.”

Mickey sighed again, “We’re dropping off the face of the earth, Ian. I don’t think you fucking understand—”

“Stop,” Ian whispered as he leaned forward, pressing his mouth to Mickey’s. “Stop trying to talk me out of this.”

Mickey kissed him achingly slow. Ian went static all over, skin rippling with want as Mickey licked into his mouth. It was so fucking good. Ian loved when Mickey kissed him like this. He loved when Mickey made him wait for it; Mickey was impatient as hell, and when he slowed down, he slowed down the whole world with him.

Just as slow, Mickey ended the kiss, pressing his forehead against Ian’s. Ian wrapped his arms around Mickey’s middle, holding him there. It was quiet in the kitchen, so quiet it didn’t seem real.

“We gotta figure something out,” Mickey breathed. “Lana being pregnant didn’t work. We gotta—”

“Stop,” Ian said again, ghosting his lips against Mickey’s.

Mickey breathed him in when he pressed a kiss to Ian’s lips. Ian groaned from the feeling of fingers sinking into his hair, from Mickey pressing down against him, pressing close, rocking on his lap slow. Slick tongues slid against each other, fingers curling under shirts to grip each other, wherever they could.

“Got some making up to do, Gallagher.” Mickey’s voice was so fucked out; he shook under Ian’s hands while he grabbed at his shirt, pulling on it, “Month’s worth.”

Ian couldn’t agree more. His body was revving the fuck up, heat blooming from deep in his gut, spreading out along his veins like lightning. He blindly stood as he grabbed Mickey around the middle with one arm, his other reaching for the kitchen table, a single sweeping motion knocking everything onto the floor in a loud, messy pile. 

The brunette snorted a laugh against his mouth as Ian dropped him onto the table, hands making quick work at Mickey’s belt.  

That laugh was the best sound Ian had heard in weeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3
> 
> Next chapter is going to be very club heavy, there's going to be some fucked up shit that I'll pre-warn you about beforehand, and there's going to be some Problematic Behavior that is absolutely canon, but I wanna give a good heads up before. It's one of those... like, you gotta be _real honest_ about these characters. Real real honest.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **longish but important notes**
> 
> 1\. Bitch this chapter long as hell (for me lol)
> 
> 2\. Content warning: There is some probably triggering shit in here. We got canon compliant racism; gun violence; unprotected sex; a discussion about an abortion... and general assholery. This chapter is club heavy. And there's a lot going on. (tags will be added)
> 
> 3\. The behavior depicted specifically in the first section of this chapter is unfortunately 100% canon & tbh to deny that would be like putting your head in the sand. I obviously don’t agree with this behavior/prejudices, so this is one of those times that I’m going to ask you to please separate me from my work. I will have translations in the end notes.

He felt shiny and new. Felt good. He hasn’t felt good in fucking years, but now? Fuck. Mickey didn’t tend to like feeling too good, he didn’t like being caught off guard in any situation, especially one like this. But it was hard not to feel good when he knew what was to come, months from now. It was hard to go back to feeling like shit, knowing that there was an apartment above a Thai place that he could sneak away to, and then one day there wouldn’t ever be any more sneaking around. Never again. 

There was a light, an actual fucking light at the end of the tunnel. 

The sun was out. Birds were fucking chirping. All that shit. God, it was a good day.

“I said don’t fucking move,” Mickey growled, jamming the nose of his gun under a man’s jaw. There was a huge NCK tattoo across his throat. The guy was from a local gang — the gang that tried to kill Iggy. New City Kings — Mexican or Cuban, he didn’t fucking know or give a shit. It didn’t matter. 

Under normal circumstances, this shit would have been taken care of weeks ago. It would have been taken care of immediately after the fact. But this was Iggy’s call, and he wanted to be a hundred percent before the retaliation… and he wanted Mickey a hundred percent too, not tweaking out of his mind. He wanted in on it — he argued with the club about it until he was out of breath and aching. They owed him, so the postponement was allowed.

“Man, fuck you,” The man snarled back, but he complied. 

Mickey was inches away from the man’s face, putting on his mask of iron while he ignored that comment. “This him?” He called, but didn’t take his eyes off the man.

Iggy came up to Mickey’s side, his own iron mask in place. He got real close too, and the man blinked a couple times, looking between the two of them. Then Iggy reached out, grabbing a handful of the man’s dark hair as he turned his head side to side, looking him over.

“Hm,” Iggy grunted. “I don’t think so, but they all look the fucking same.”

The man narrowed his eyes at Iggy, suddenly finding a little spark in him. Mickey didn’t necessarily speak Spanish, but he could pick out some words and phrases he picked up in prison. The man let out a soft string of words through his teeth, amongst them  _ cabrón  _ and _ madre _ . 

Mickey pressed the gun tighter under his jaw, “Watch it,  esé .”

“Bet he knows who it was. Don’t you?” Iggy held the man’s head in place still.

“Fuck you,” the man snarled for possibly the tenth time. He’d been saying that a lot.

Iggy snarled back, lip curling back as he bared his teeth. Mickey smirked at his brother’s response. Iggy was always so laid back, always so  _ whatever _ about shit… but his business mode was just like the rest of them —especially when he had an axe to grind, like getting fucking  _ shot _ . Iggy didn’t give a fuck, was a little reckless sometimes, but he kept it interesting.

Keeping it interesting like spitting directly in this man’s face. There was an immediate scuffle, where the man yelled and lurched forward towards Iggy, reaching for him. The brothers were both on him before they lost control of the situation, Iggy with his hand still in the man’s hair, slamming his head back against the wall of the rusted shipping container, and Mickey cocking his gun so the man knew they weren’t fucking around.

“Don’t be stupid,” Mickey told him. “We’ll drop your beaner ass right fucking here.”

With a heavy grunt, another man was slammed into the wall next to Iggy and Mickey. Sully and Colin were in this other man’s face, Sully taking the gunman position, Colin as backup. Iggy was softly humming  _ La Cucaracha  _ off to the side; Mickey bit the inside of his cheek to make sure his face stayed iron. Fucking Iggy.

The loud clacking and roaring of a train bled over from the tracks, disrupting the chirping birds’ melodies.

“Better start talking,” Sully raised his voice over the sound of the train. “We want the name, then you can go back to keeping South Side’s lawns looking fresh.”

“You’re not gonna do  _ shit _ ,” Sully’s guy sneered. “This is Kings territory, pendejo!”

These two were little rat runners for NCK. Easy pickings to get information from, before hitting up the big dogs about their rogue man. The runners tended to be mouthy, full of bravado that they often failed to back up. But they had heart, that was for sure.

“South Side belongs to us,” Mickey reminded him. “All of it. We own your brown asses.”

The man’s eyebrows rose high, “Oh yeah, bolillo? You  _ own _ us?”

“Fucking white boys think they’re something,” Mickey’s guy muttered to his friend, followed by more words Mickey couldn’t fucking understand other than another appearance from  _ pendejo _ .

“Not scared of a couple pencil-dicked skinheads,” Sully’s guy cracked.

Another train was passing by.

Iggy cleared his throat, and before Mickey could even register what was happening, his brother pulled his gun from his waistband, pressed it to their guy’s thigh and pulled the trigger at the height of the racket from the train. 

Mickey resisted the natural instinct to flinch from the loud pop as he clenched his jaw, glaring over at Iggy. A warning would have been nice. Their guy howled in pain, doubling over despite the gun wedged under his jaw. Mickey let him recoil from the shot —that shit was no joke.

“Ay!” Sully’s guy yelled. “You’re dead! The Kings will finish the fucking job —  estás muerto! Toda tu familia está muerta! ” He shut up quick when Sully pressed up into his jaw more with the gun.

“Losing patience here,” Iggy drawled, grabbing the guy by the collar, handing him off to Mickey so he could put him back against the wall. 

Mickey kept his mouth shut, backed his brother up no matter what. This retaliation belonged to Iggy. His gun moved back into place under the man’s jaw, free hand pushing at the man’s chest, keeping him in place. The NCK soldier was trying to reach down to his thigh to press against his wound to stop the bleeding; awful groaning sounds were pouring out of his mouth, curses and quick breath.

“Who was it?” Mickey asked the guy, kept his voice hard. “The more you stall, the more you bleed.”

Sully cocked his gun under his guy’s jaw, as Colin looked on, his face fallen in boredom. “Tick tock, vatos.”

“He’s only got a few more minutes left til he’s down for the fucking count,” Sully said. “Gonna let your man go out like this? The guy who shot our brother… is he worth it?”

Mickey sucked on his teeth, addressing Sully’s guy, “You tell us who shot our brother, and you can go. If not... the next bullet is going in your fucking head, and your man here will be left to bleed out next to you. Choose wisely.”

Sully’s man was visibly clenching his jaw, eyes darting over to his friend, worried.

“You know we’re not bluffing,” Colin sighed at him. He was going through a wallet, taking out an ID card. Then he found a folded up picture of a little boy with a bucket for a hat that he held up to show the rest of them, “This your son, Mr...  Martìnez ?”

Both Mickey and Sully quickly glanced at each other; Iggy shifted his weight as he took a quick look over at Colin. As reckless as Iggy could be… Colin had proven to be be fucking ruthless. He was the first born son, probably the true favorite  _ because _ of his ruthlessness, and the one that got away with the most (used to be Mickey… before). He was the most like Terry, without being a fucking evil piece of shit — really, he was cool, but business was business.

They had to get this fucking guys name or else Mickey was going to have to go up against Colin — and Iggy would probably back Colin up because he always fucking does. And as much as he really didn’t want to do that, there was no way in fuck he was going to let Colin go after this dude’s kid. Black, white, brown… didn’t fucking matter at that point. Kids are kids. 

He didn’t  _ think _ Colin would cross that line, but it was hard to tell with him sometimes when it came to the club, with how close to said line Colin liked to dance.

Five minutes later, four bikes thundered down the streets of Chicago with a backdrop of a warm orange sky. Iggy was leading the way, keeping a tight formation as they wove between cars. Mickey gripped his handlebars tightly, a growing jolt of adrenaline swirling in in his gut. It’s been a while since he’s played the intimidation and retaliation game. But these motherfuckers tried to kill one of their own. 

They went in hot, following Iggy’s lead. Pulled up in front of a shitty gray house —a group of four men were hanging out on the front steps… soldiers listening to a shitty radio playing shitty Spanish rap. The men straightened up real quick when Mickey and his brothers parked their bikes, heading towards the house.

One of the men stepped forward, but before he could say a word, Iggy had already drawn his gun and pointed it in his face. Fuck. Okay.

The other three made a couple steps towards them, reaching for their waistbands, but Mickey, Sully and Colin were already beating them to it, raising their own guns, “Nah nah nah, you motherfuckers stay over there. We’ll get to you,” Mickey said.

Iggy still had his gun on the first soldier, “You Lil’ Oso?”

The man sneered at Iggy, all anger and disgust in his eyes, but kept silent. Hands out while a gun was pointed at him, he seemed less worried and more pissed.

“Yo, vato,” Mickey snapped his fingers at Iggy’s guy, brows arched in question, “You deaf? Habla Inglés?” 

He paused, huffing a short laugh.  _ Oh shit. _ He’d been face to face with this guy before… in prison. 

They never actually  _ spoke _ to one another, just had a hard stare down after the guy walked in on something he shouldn’t have. Guards were coming too quickly so they had to bolt their separate ways, and then last Mickey heard the other man was transferred to a private prison right after… universe works funny sometimes.

His name is Angel, and he fucking looks like it too. Mickey remembers because he rolled his eyes when someone told him. He’s got Catholic icon tattoos up and down his arms, and across his chest, and if Mickey were into something a little spicy, he’d probably fit the bill.

“Go fuck yourself,” Angel shot back in perfect English.

That made Mickey laugh, “A’ight. So where’s your boy Lil’ Oso at? He’s got some  _ es’plainin’ _ to do.”

“I don’t know a Lil’ Oso man,” Angel rolled his eyes in a blatant lie. He called back to his boys, “Y’all know a Lil’ Oso?”

“Lil  _ who _ ?” One of them cracked, making the others laugh. 

“Don’t you all have a klan meeting to get to?” Another soldier piped up. For a group of guys who had guns on them, Mickey had to give it to them for their chill. Fucking funny too.

Colin snorted a laugh for the first time today, “Nah, that’s Saturday.”

Mickey had enough of this shit, though. He had a feeling this guy Angel might be a fucking problem for them, and Iggy was already starting to lose control of the retaliation. He felt himself shut down as he reached for Iggy’s gun arm, tapping it so he lowered his weapon; he had to take the reins so they could do what they needed to do and fucking go home. 

He stepped up, and kept his voice low and hard as he addressed the NCK soldier, “Angel, right? I know you know who the fuck I am. What was his name…  _ Chato _ .” When Angel was visibly angry, shifting his weight, tilting his chin up in a challenge, Mickey cracked a shitty grin. “It was hard to understand what he was saying because of all the blood he was choking on, but I’m pretty sure he died crying for his mommy.”

Mickey watched Angel lower his arms, his shoulders dipping and raising as he took a deep breath. “Milkovich, I will fucking bury you and your white trash family all over South Side.”

“Nah, I don’t think so,” Mickey shook his head, shrugging. “Chato was legit. Evened shit out, so suck it up buttercup.”

“ _ Puto _ ,” Angel spat. He looked at him like he knew.

Mickey felt his whole body catch fire, shuddering as he tried to stay fucking calm. But he couldn’t. The front yard erupted when Mickey slung his own slur at Angel and shoved his gun in his face, yelling louder when Angel did the same. He didn’t even know what he was saying, he was just fucking hurling words at Angel. Mickey’s brothers all kept the rest of the soldiers back; he heard some yelling coming from inside the house.

All he saw was red. “You say that shit again, you’re gonna see your homeboy Chato real fucking soon,” Mickey hissed, steadying his gun.

“We don’t wanna do it like this!” Mickey heard Sully call over all the yelling. 

Angel smirked at Mickey, waving his gun a little as he spoke low, “Getting a little riled up over a word. What’s wrong, no one knows how you get down in lockup,  _ puto _ ?”

Mickey swallowed hard, his body moving quicker than his brain. He didn’t even know how it fucking happened, but the next thing he knew, he was dropping his gun and tackling Angel to the ground, knocking his gun away so they could do this shit old school. 

Then, a loud, piercing whistle followed by a loud, deep voice yelling something in Spanish caught Mickey off guard, making him pause mid-punch. 

“This ain’t fucking over, you piece of shit,” Angel growled at him before he shoved Mickey off; he grabbed his gun and made his way towards the house along with the rest of the soldiers. Mickey and his brothers were left in the front yard, watching in confusion. 

What the fuck… oh. The head of the gang, a big dude named Julio, stood on the front porch of the house, arms crossed over his chest. He had a shaved head, and even more tattoos than the rest of his soldiers. 

Before Mickey could even ask what the fuck was going on, he heard the distinct rumbling of approaching bikes. Fuck, for fucking real? He sneered at the NCK members, returning Angel’s middle finger before he and his brothers made their way to their bikes, standing by.

“Why the fuck are they here,” Iggy sucked his teeth. “This is mine.”

“You lost control,” Colin said. “Now we look like we can’t handle our shit, and OG’s are stepping in. King Beaner over there must’ve made a fucking call.  _ That’s _ what’s fucking happening.”

Mickey wiped at his mouth; he was shaking, “We had it.”

“Shut up Mickey,  _ you _ fucked it up,” Iggy was in Mickey’s face, shoving at him. “You lost it over Brown talking shit, you weak ass bitch.”

Bristled, Mickey shoved him back, “We can do this right fucking now, I’ll show you which one of us is a bitch, you dumb fuck. Maybe if you had an actual fucking  _ plan— _ ”

“Stop!” Colin and Sully both intervene. The old timers had pulled up. Three of them, none of them Terry of course, because why would Terry come, right? This wouldn’t even be something worth his fucking time if he  _ wasn’t _ keeping out of sight in the first place.

It was Sonny, James K, and Ralphie. They’d been around for as long as Mickey can remember; they’ve been the go-to old timers to take care of shit when Terry couldn’t bother. They were still hard as all fuck, still intimidating. Seniority dictated that Mickey and his brothers respect them and step back, letting them confer with the NCK leader to sort this out — Mickey can’t remember the last time something like this happened, but it was bullshit.

More than bullshit, it was embarrassing and undercutting. Mickey felt like he was off his game. He got too comfortable, he wasn’t ready to see someone from prison on the outside, he hadn’t been ready to form a better plan of attack when something like this  _ possibly _ happened. Fuck.

Mickey cursed under his breath, lighting up a cigarette while the OG’s spoke amongst themselves in the middle of the front yard, soldiers waiting in the wings, waiting for a verdict. His good day turned to absolute fucking shit. An instant spiral down, dragging Mickey’s give-a-fuck with it.

Ralphie, dark gray hair slicked back, looked over at Mickey and the rest of them. He shook his head in disappointment, then went back to the conversation. It set fire to any patience he had left; Mickey felt like a scolded child, and that pissed him the fuck off. 

He was Terry Milkoviches fucking  _ son _ , his  _ blood _ , he deserved more respect than a disappointed head shake. He deserved more respect than the Old Timer Brigade coming to hold his fucking hand through a retaliation. Didn’t matter that Ralphie was an old timer. Mickey did six fucking years for the club, taking people out in fucking  _ prison _ for the club. Mickey’s been putting his ass on the fucking line for too fucking long for this shit, he  _ deserved _ more respect than this.

He felt… powerless. Useless. Untrusted.

“No,” Mickey growled. He was pissed.

“ _ Mick _ ,” Sully grabbed at his shoulder, but Mickey was already moving, shrugging out of Sully’s grasp. He threw his cigarette down and made his way towards the old timers, seeing Angel pace on the porch, like he wanted to follow Mickey’s lead.

Ralphie pointed at him, “You get the fuck back.”

Mickey ground his teeth, “Fuck this shit.” he spat, turning back towards his brothers. He kept walking though, jumping on his bike, ignoring Sully and Iggy telling him to stay. He revved the engine, looking over at all three Iron Eagles old timers watching him. That same disappointed look on their faces. Fuck them.

He drove off, ignoring the nagging flare of dread in his stomach that was honestly probably fueling this whole thing. 

Angel  _ knew _ .

 

* * *

 

Ian looks confused when he opens his door; to be fair, Mickey had been fucking pounding on it like he had a warrant. He doesn’t explain anything, just shoves his way into Ian’s apartment and locks the door behind him. Ian stays quiet, watching him with questioning eyes.

“What’s wrong?”

Mickey shakes his head, looking Ian up and down —he was still in his uniform and it almost distracted him. He can’t put words to it right now, he can’t talk, his mouth won’t let him. He knows what he’s feeling, but he can’t fucking say it without sounding like a fucking  _ child _ .

“Mick,” Ian reached for him, stopping him from pacing in the hallway. “Are you okay?”

“I did six fucking years for them, and they’re treating me like a fucking  _ prospect _ !” Mickey forced out, all rushed. “I had that shit!  _ We _ had it, and they fucking undercut us.”

He knows that Ian can put together enough context to figure out what Mickey was so pissed about; Ian knows Mickey, knows the root of the fucking issue here. But also, Mickey doesn’t really want to go through the whole thing right now,  _ especially _ doesn’t want to freak Ian out about Angel knowing what he knows — what he thinks he knows. His mind is going a hundred miles an hour and all Mickey can do is fume.

“Sully’s the only one worth a fuck,” Mickey spat. “Iggy’s a reckless idiot. Colin’s turning into Pablo fucking Escobar. I don’t know what the fuck happened while I was gone — my dad took a step away from the streets and everyone thinks they can—”

When Ian pushes him against the wall; he bristles for a second, pushing off the wall, only to have Ian shoving him right back into place. “What the fuck—”

Ian’s going for his belt, “They undermined you?  _ You _ ?”

Mickey nodded, wetting his lips. Ian had this heat in his eyes that was highly distracting. The engines of his anger slowed down for a second, thrown off. “Yeah.”

The redhead clicked his tongue, shaking his head, “Don’t they know who the fuck you are?”

Catching on finally, Mickey pulled up the corner of his mouth in a crooked, sly grin. His insides fluttered from a lot of things in that moment, but  _ shit _ Ian was sexy; Mickey couldn’t help but get thrown off course, taking in the view in front of him. 

Ian yanked Mickey’s belt from his pants, dropping it to the floor with a clunk. The tension in the air was so thick, Mickey was choking on it. Ian asked again, “Don’t they know who the  _ fuck _ you are?”

The engines sped back up again.

“You wanna see?” Mickey stepped up to Ian, got in his face while he shrugged out of his cut, letting that fall to the floor with his belt. He made sure to keep his eyes on Ian’s, pulling his shirt off over his head, tossing that to the side as well. “You wanna see who the fuck I am?”

“Show me,” Ian breathed.

Mickey caught Ian in a kiss, fingers plucking at the buttons of his uniform; he heard one pop off and clatter to the floor. He walked them deeper into Ian’s apartment, trying to guide the redhead  _ somewhere _ . He’d been aiming for Ian’s bed, but they diverted and ended up at the small couch in the cramped living room.  _ Good enough _ .

Ian, now sans uniform shirt and belt, leaned back against the couch as he tried to catch his breath. He was all bedroom eyes, mouth, and hair. Mickey stood in front of him, wiping the slick from kissing off of his mouth, also breathing hard; he gestured to Ian’s pants to take them off, before changing his mind mid hand movement. He pushed his own jeans down stepping out of them quickly, and then climbed on the redhead’s lap, straddling him.

“Yeah. I like this,” Ian whispered, his hands immediately going for Mickey’s ass, grabbing at the material of his boxers, he pulled Mickey forward in his lap, pressing their constrained erections together. He moved them, laying across the couch, Mickey still perched on top, rocking slow. Mickey shuddered; fuck that was good. “You’re always in my lap now. Fucking belong here, huh.”

Mickey rocked his hips forward, seeking out friction as he shut Ian up with his mouth. He didn’t know how fucking  _ good _ it could be, being in Ian’s lap. He always got hung up on shit, didn’t want to be “the girl” didn’t want to look like a little twink bitch. He didn’t  _ feel _ like one though, not with Ian grabbing his ass like this and punching out desperate moans every time Mickey pushed against him. 

When Ian pushed at the band of Mickey’s boxers, pulling it down, exposing his ass, Mickey attached his lips to Ian’s neck. Ian was grabbing and touching his ass, pressing with fingers, teasing him. His hips stuttered when he felt Ian’s fingers press against him. He moaned, eyes rolling.

“God baby, you feel so fucking good. You like that?” Ian whispered, his finger pressing against Mickey’s hole again. “Wanna open you up and fuck you, so bad.”

Mickey, gasped, reaching back to grab Ian’s wrist, then the other, pressing them to the arm of the couch, above Ian’s head. Ian’s mouth was reddened and puffy, eyes glazed over. Mickey licked his lips at the sight, his mouth watering with want.

“Stay here,” Mickey told him. “Don’t fucking move.”

Ian nodded, licking his lips, “Promise I won’t.”

Mickey used all the agility of an outlaw on the run, jumping over the back of the couch, dashing into Ian’s room to the nightstand, getting what he needed out of there. When he got back, Ian hadn’t moved an inch. 

With a smirk, Mickey tossed the condom and lube to the side, pushed his boxers down  _ enough  _ and then pushed into Ian’s waiting mouth; the redhead’s hands touching him where he could. It was an odd angle, with Ian leaning over while still laying down, and Mickey half leaning over the couch. But Mickey closed his eyes because how good it felt to have Ian’s mouth on him was outweighing the awkwardness of the angle. 

“Ga’damn,” Mickey whispered, one hand braced on the arm of the couch, the other ran through Ian’s hair, then down the side of his face, feeling Ian’s jaw stretch open. He punched out a strained moan when Ian swallowed him down. He looked so fucking good like that.

“C’mere,” Ian slipped Mickey from his mouth, pulling on his arm, pulling him down to the couch. Mickey fell with a soft sigh, letting Ian move him where he wanted, completely fucking focused on the redhead’s movements, the sight of him.

Mickey ended up on the couch, on his back where Ian had been. He kept watching Ian while the redhead tugged at his boxers down Mickey’s legs the rest of the way. Mickey sighed, letting his legs fall open when the redhead settled between his legs, going for his cock again with his mouth.

“Fucking  _ Christ _ ,” Mickey groaned, arching his back. Ian was swallowing him down so fucking good. Mickey threw a hand behind him, grabbing the arm of the couch while his other hand reached for Ian’s hair, tugging. His hips rocked deeper into Ian’s humming mouth, legs feeling like pure jelly. 

“Mm,” Ian grunted around him. Mickey forced his eyes to stay open so he could watch his dick disappear into the redheads mouth over and over. His eyes wanted to close so bad, wanted to clench tight and ride this wave until he was spilling down Ian’s throat. 

Ian grunted around him again. Mickey shuddered, savagely biting on his lip. 

“Look so fucking good,” Mickey whispered, his fingers trailing down the side of Ian’s face, slipping under his jaw. He loved feeling Ian’s jaw open for him, loved feeling the vibrations from the redhead’s soft hums; Mickey could watch him all day. 

But Ian pulled off, making Mickey whimper in protest. He wanted Ian’s mouth back, wanted his mouth fucking everywhere. He was getting so close, wound the fuck up and ready to lose his goddamn mind. 

Ian was in his face, was kissing him, letting Mickey taste himself on Ian’s tongue. Mickey growled into Ian’s mouth because he fucking loved that shit. He reached down, blindly grabbing for Ian’s pants, trying to push them down. He needed them the fuck  _ off _ .  

The redhead smiled slow against his mouth, meeting his hands at the fly of his pants, stilling Mickey’s hands, moving them away. Expecting one thing, but getting another had Mickey shivering, had his breath caught in his throat. Ian had wrapped his hand around Mickey’s dick while he kept kissing him deep. It was hypnotic. His grip slid easy from the spit, and Mickey fucking leaking because he was so damn ready. 

“Want it so bad, huh,” Ian murmured against Mickey’s mouth. He trailed his kisses over Mickey’s jaw, nipping at him softly; Mickey shuddered through his nod in response. “I know, baby. I know what you need.”

Fucking  _ hell _ . 

The next thing Mickey knew, he was being flipped over, hips being tugged back and up, maneuvering him to his knees. Mickey groaned in anticipation, ass up and his elbows propped up on the arm of the couch. He heard the rustle of fabric as Ian quickly took his pants off. Mickey grinned when he cursed in frustration. He loved that man. 

Ian got back on track easily, taking his place behind Mickey on the couch. 

“Put that ass up, baby,” Ian told him softly, his hands trailing down Mickey’s thighs, then back up to his ass, giving him a slow squeeze that had Mickey’s eyes fluttering shut. 

Mickey arched his back, doing as he was told. When Ian made a low noise in the back of his throat, Mickey bit his lip. 

“Shit —fuck,  _ fuck _ ,” he hissed from the first touch of Ian’s tongue. He dropped his head forward, hiding his face in the crook of his arm while he let out a long, low moan.

Ian was pulling him the fuck apart, breaking him down. The redhead knew how to work his tongue, could get Mickey to forget his name ten different ways with that fucking tongue. They should’ve been doing from the start of them fucking around all those years ago, but it was well worth the wait now. Warm and slick pressing against his hole, pressing in, fingers rubbing and spreading and pulling open. Fuck. 

“Fuck, just like that,” Mickey gasped into the crook of his arm, all muffled and slurring. He had to bury his face, otherwise the Ian was going to get a noise complaint from the restaurant downstairs. “Keep doing that, s’fucking good…”

He was so fucking  _ sensitive _ now, even more so than before. Six years of being left the fuck alone (left alone by someone other than himself) evidently fucking did that, it seemed. Or damn, maybe he was  _ always _ fucking like this. The wet sounds of Ian’s tongue, paired with fingertips biting into the fat of his ass… Mickey was a mess.

Mickey gritted through his teeth, his muscles barely holding him up anymore, “Ian,  _ please _ …”

Ian hummed low one last time as he gave Mickey a slow drag of his tongue from his fucking sac to his hole. Fucking amazing. Mickey let out a long breath, listening to Ian move around more, the sweet sweet sound of the lube bottle popping open. 

And then Ian opened him up, worked him patient and careful. His slicked fingers pressing inside him, sliding in and out, just  _ barely _ touching the best spots inside, fucking tease. Mickey’s eyes rolled back, hips pushing back to fuck himself on Ian’s fingers. He reached down to squeeze his weeping cock, giving himself a couple hard strokes; his hips jerked when Ian slipped a second finger inside. 

“You gonna ride me, baby?” Ian spoke soft, his warm breath bleeding across Mickey’s ass in the best fucking way. He finally really pressed against Mickey’s prostate, working the sweet spot (he made a mental note to get the redhead to make him come with just those fingers one night.). “Use my cock to get yourself off... I wanna fucking see you, Mickey.”

All Mickey could do was nod, his lip securely trapped between his teeth, eyes clenched shut. It was so much, he was so worked up, and Ian fingers felt so fucking good stretching him open. He wanted to show Ian. He wanted to be so fucking good, wanted to show Ian what he could do, who he fucking was. 

It all went by in a haze, but after Ian worked him open, Mickey was pushing him down on his ass, pulling off Ian’s stupid plaid boxers, then throwing his leg over so he could sit in the redheads lap. 

Mickey grabbed Ian’s face, kissing him while their erections pressed against each other. Both of them moaned in response; Mickey took the opportunity to slip his tongue between Ian’s open lips, demanding and overwhelming him. There was nothing else. Just them.

While they kissed, Ian’s arms wrapped around Mickey’s middle, one hand sliding down to his ass while Mickey’s hips rocked against him, fucking desperate for friction. “That’s right,” Ian whispered, stilling Mickey by pressing a finger inside him again. God, that simple stretch had Mickey melting. “Show me.”

He wanted something for a long fucking time. He never got it, never felt what he’s always wanted to feel with Ian, he fucking fantasized about it for the longest time. He wanted Ian  _ completely _ . 

Bravely, Mickey pressed his forehead to Ian’s, slowing the motion of his hips, slowing everything down so he could focus. “I want you,” he told Ian. “So fucking bad.”

“M’right here,” Ian breathed. He pushed a second finger back into Mickey, sliding in and out slow. “Take what you want, baby.”

Mickey swallowed down his moan, shaking his head, “I mean…” Ian was working his fingers way too good for him to concentrate; Mickey punched out a shuddering noise, trying to get back on track. “Fuck the rubber.”

“Oh my god,” Ian groaned low and long, stopping all movements. “Oh my fucking god.”

By his tone, Mickey knew that these words were good words, fucked out words that were coated in need. “Yeah?” He asked, just to be sure. Ian nodded. He nodded quickly, reiterating his answer with a strained  _ please _ . 

Mickey was shaking, reaching behind him to take Ian in his hand, stroking him slow before lining him up. The burn of the stretch around Ian was so fucking good, he swore he saw God. It was perfect.  _ They _ were perfect. He felt so fucking complete, corny as it sounded. 

_ Don’t they know who the fuck you are? _

They ended up with handfuls of hair roughly fisted between their fingers, and slick skin pressing and sliding against each other. They ended up with suck marks on their collarbones and bruises on other parts of them. 

Mickey rode Ian into the couch, not holding back the whines and moans that flew from his mouth. Ian was grabbing his ass hard, helping him move on top of him, helping him come down hard every fucking time. It was almost too much, and Mickey’s thighs were burning like a motherfucker, but the promise of climax was a far more tempting offer than stopping.

“There you are,” Ian rasped against Mickey’s throat. “Come on baby, get what’s yours.”

“God, your cock feels so good,” Mickey rushed out, gasping for air. 

“All yours,” Ian told him.

He screwed his eyes shut tight, feeling static starting to take over his body. He pushed through the burning in his thighs, focusing on Ian’s words instead, on his hands grabbing his ass, on the feel on his skin against his. 

He was going to come. Fuck. Not yet, he didn’t want to yet. Ian, _ just Ian _ , inside him felt too fucking good.

As if he were a fucking  _ mind reader _ , Ian grabbed Mickey’s ass hard, slowing him down, “Wait wait wait, I don’t wanna come yet, wait…”

They stayed like that for a minute, just breathing and kissing soft. Ian’s hands shook, chest rising and sinking deeply with every breath he took. Mickey wasn’t much better. 

He locked eyes with the redhead, not daring to look away while he took every inch he could. “You see me, huh?” Mickey panted. 

Ian slid his arms around Mickey’s middle, dragging him close. He kissed him slow, and Mickey couldn’t stop the whine from leaving his throat if he tried. “Always see you,” Ian murmured against Mickey’s mouth.

“Yeah?” Mickey wet his lips, starting to rock his hips real slow, easing the ache of need. When Ian said shit like that, it made his heart swell, made him forget about all the bad.

Ian nodded, gently pushing Mickey back a little so he could run his hand down his chest; the simple movement made Mickey sigh softly, made his eyes slip closed for a moment. “Sometimes I can’t see anything else,” Ian whispered to him. 

Long fingers brushed over his skin everywhere; Mickey reached for those hands, guiding them in place where he wanted Ian to touch him, then letting Ian continue on his own. On his chest, down his stomach, Ian followed without hesitation, spanning his hands out wide. Mickey loved that. He really fucking loved being touched like this; didn’t know how much he loved it until this very moment. 

“Your skin is so fucking soft,” Ian breathed. His hands slid over Mickey’s side, up and down his back, then sliding over his chest again. He gently tweaked a nipple, and Mickey’s skin shuddered in pleasure (another mental note; goddamn). So fucking quiet, he added, “I love that you’re mine.  _ Lucky _ you’re mine.”

It was so much. Mickey bit his lip, trying to sort out what he was feeling, trying to focus on the physical because he wanted to get his so fucking bad, he was hurting for it. But Ian and his fucking  _ mouth _ , saying shit like that… and his hands touching him like this, all soft but exploring. Fuck.

Then the redhead grinned soft at him, reaching down to take Mickey’s cock in his hand, stroking him with those exploratory hands until Mickey’s hips jerked forward, chasing him; he changed gears seamlessly. “Wanna make you come so bad.”

Mickey nodded because he couldn’t talk but agreed completely. He wrapped his arms around Ian’s shoulders, getting ready now that his thighs had a moment's rest, and his body was begging for release. 

His mouth dropped open, unable to move anymore because between Ian’s fucking monster cock buried inside him, and Ian’s long fingers wrapped tightly around his dick… it was a lot. 

Gently, Mickey reached down, uncurling Ian’s hand, guiding the redhead to hold his hips instead while Mickey started  _ really _ moving again. Ian grinned at him, “Close, huh?”

Mickey kisses Ian hard, slipping his tongue between his lips, his teeth, seeking him out as he rocked harder. He saw stars, swore he did. Mickey bit at Ian, grunting softly, “Don’t need it like this.” This was another perk to being in Ian’s lap… the feeling of being able to ride his way to come undone on his own, with Ian’s hands grabbing him everywhere --fucking indescribable.

Ian grunted in appreciation, gripping Mickey’s hips tighter. But he winked, and Mickey knew some bullshit was coming, “Don’t need it with that good dick, huh?”

He could not keep the laugh in if he wanted to. Mickey’s pace got all fucked up, and he was right in the middle of a spasm of absolute fucking  _ heaven _ , “You’re a fucking idiot.”

Ian cracked a grin, helping him get back on track quickly, “You good now?”

Mickey hummed while he nodded, wetting his lips. His eyes slipped closed, and he was fucking  _ lost _ in it. Shut out everything besides what he was feeling, shut out everything besides Ian.

He kept moving. Faster and deeper, he got fucking lost. Ian’s hands helped him, guided him when he got so lost that his body went with him. It was all static and haze, all rushing waves hitting him over and over. Ian felt so fucking good, filled him so fucking perfectly. He could only hear their breathing, a soft squeak of the couch under them, and skin against skin. 

He loved that sound. Skin hitting skin, hitting it hard. It was filthy. Made him feel something, he just didn’t know what. But it was good. Really fucking good.

Then Ian started meeting Mickey’s movements, fucking up into him hard. Mickey held onto the back of the couch, fingers biting into it. He opened his mouth and wanted to let out a noise, but with Ian hitting his fucking prostate every time, he’d lost all sense of knowing how the fuck to form words.

Vaguely, he heard Ian moaning louder under him, felt his fingers dig deeper into his hips. Mickey knew he was going to be bruised the fuck up. Ian was all over his body, and knowing that made Mickey feel so fucking  _ much _ . He was Ian’s, and his body showed that, and it was how Mickey wanted to stay for the rest of his fucking life.

The world fell away.  _ Everything _ fell away. He opened his eyes, and Ian was there right in front of him, all big green eyes and flushed cheeks, looking at him like he was the fucking moon. Ian told him he was beautiful, looked beautiful when he was full like this, and something in Mickey stitched itself together, made him feel good.

“Eyes on me,” Ian panted. He was close, Mickey could tell. He was right  _ there _ . “Come for me, baby. Show me you’re mine. I wanna see you.”

He did. He came hard. He came so  _ fucking _ hard, gasping for air like a man breaching the surface of the ocean. He clung to Ian and shook against him, teeth scraping against a freckled shoulder. He tasted the skin of Ian’s throat, grinning when he fell over that edge right after, giving Mickey  _ exactly _ what he fucking asked for.

He never wanted this to end. He  _ never _ wanted this to fucking end.

Later, Ian passed Mickey a lit cigarette they were sharing. Mickey had shown Ian who he was twice, and his body not only displayed, but felt the results of that. And fucking hell, did he need that after what happened earlier. He couldn’t stay long, had to get back to the club pretty soon, deal with all that shit. 

But for the moments he had to spare now, Mickey wanted to take advantage as much as he possibly could. He was laid back against Ian, under the redhead’s arm, sheets bunched up around their waists. Ian kept feathering his fingertips against Mickey’s skin, kept burying his face in Mickey’s hair, breathing him in. It felt so fucking good. He was exhausted. Spent. 

“I think we need to bring Mandy in,” Ian said; his voice scratched a little at the edges.

Mickey shook his head. No fucking way. “I don’t want her pulled back in, she got out.”

“I know,” Ian sighed. “I just hate lying to her, and she’s fresh eyes. We always used her fresh eyes when we were stuck.”

“We’re not fucking stuck—”

“Mick, come on,” Ian scoffed. “We’re stuck. It’s right  _ there _ in front of us, and we’re not fucking seeing it. Mandy will, you know she will.”

Yeah. Mickey took a hard pull from the cigarette, passing it back to Ian. He had a point, but bringing Mandy in means telling her everything. Every fucking thing. Mickey didn’t know if he was ready for that —didn’t know if he’d  _ ever _ be ready for that. It was no secret that Mandy didn’t have  _ any _ issues with gay people, in fact Mickey knew that she’d probably be  _ whatever _ about the whole thing. She wouldn’t give a fuck. But she would  _ know _ . And that…

Ian let out this long, slightly frustrated sigh, “Then just tell her about  _ him  _ and what he did to that family.”

“Lemme think about it,” Mickey said. He could give Ian that, he could think about it.

It was quiet for a moment, Ian trailing his hand down Mickey’s arm, giving him a soft squeeze. Then he asked, “What happened today?”

Mickey sighed, leaning back against Ian’s shoulder, eyes flicking over to look out the window. What the fuck  _ did _ happen? “Iggy was heading his retaliation against the NCK —you know the Mexicans that shot him.”

Ian paused, “I thought they were Cuban?”

“Who knows,” Mickey rolled his eyes before he continued. “Point is, their OG called  _ our _ OG’s because Iggy didn’t have a fucking plan, and lost control of the situation. Colin is a prick, and I...” he sighed, shaking his head.

“You what?” Ian squeezed his arm again.

“I let one of their guys get to me,” Mickey told Ian. He purposely left out: one, Mickey baited the guy with the fact that he shanked a NCK soldier to death; and two, that same guy  _ knew _ about Mickey, or seemed to think he did. It was fucking  _ prison _ though, and that shit doesn’t even count, an ass is an ass, a mouth is a mouth…  

But Ian knowing that someone from prison knew about Mickey, who wasn’t Mickey friend but the fucking opposite of that, would have Ian stressed the fuck out. This guy was just out there in the world, knowing what he fucking knew. Stress. And when Ian stressed, Mickey fucking stressed on top of his already stressed the fuck out state. 

“What did he say?” Ian asked.

Mickey sighed, turning his head to look at Ian finally. “It was just shit talking, man. It’s fine. I let him get to me.”

Ian didn’t look convinced, but thankfully let it go. 

They laid there together for a little longer, until they couldn’t. Until Mickey had to untangle himself from Ian, and get himself dressed again. It had been  _ really _ impulsive to ride over here; Mickey just had to get the fuck away from everyone and go somewhere he could calm the fuck down, somewhere someone understood the real fucking problem. He needed Ian, and him needing Ian was risky. Risky but worth it. Always fucking worth it.

He tried to not let the promise of a happily ever after whisk him away to the point where he couldn’t focus. He really fucking tried. But when he was trying to get out of Ian’s apartment, and didn’t want to leave Ian’s long arms around him and perfect fucking mouth working against his… fuck, it was hard not to get caught up in thinking about when they could just  _ be _ .

“I gotta go,” Mickey breathed into Ian’s mouth. He let his hands be raised above his head, moaning when Ian held him by his wrists. “Don’t start something I can’t fucking finish.”

Ian groaned, frustrated, but nodding in understanding, releasing Mickey’s wrists. “Fine. Go back to your biker gang.”

Mickey rubbed his fingers over his tender mouth, giving Ian a look. When he said, “It’s a club,” Ian said it with him. “Fuck you,” Ian did it again.

“C’mere,” Mickey grinned, grabbing Ian by the back of the neck. He kissed Ian deep before breaking it, pressing his forehead against Ian’s. “I love you,” Mickey told him.

“I love you,” Ian echoed him in a whisper. “Be careful. Please.”

Mickey nodded, stuffing down the swell of emotion threatening his chest and throat. He leaned away, getting one last look at Ian. He didn’t want to go. He wanted to lock this door again and turn all the lights off and just fucking hide out here for the rest of his fucking life. There was absolutely no part of him that wanted to walk out of this door. He wanted to stay with Ian so bad that his insides screamed and thrashed like a toddler’s tantrum.

He said, “I’m always careful.”

“No you’re not,” Ian half smirked at him.

Caught, Mickey couldn’t help but chuckle at that; nodding his head again, he opened the front door, “I’ll  _ be _ careful.”

 

* * *

 

“Wow. You really don’t mess around, do you?”

There was no time to question what happened when Mickey pulled up to the clubhouse. There was absolutely no fucking time to stop and ask Hannah what the fuck was going on, when she walked up out of nowhere, made her little quip while she messed her hair and lipstick, then wiped her smudged fingers across Mickey’s tender mouth. He still couldn’t put syllables together when she slid her arm in his, walking with him to the entrance. 

It happened so fast that Mickey could only get out a small, confused huff. 

“You’re not done with me,” Hannah added quietly. “Tell me that.”

_ What? _ Mickey, absolutely blindsided, could only stare at the blonde with questioning eyes as they walked. Before a word could even leave his mouth, they were in the common area of the clubhouse and Hannah was giggling and apologizing to Ralphie and Sonny for keeping Mickey so long. 

Hannah gave him a look in front of Ralphie, brow arched, hinting. Mickey still lost, but catching onto…  _ something _ ; he didn’t know what the fuck that something was, but he suddenly became violently aware of the fact that he was just with Ian, and  _ definitely _ looked like it. 

Reckless. Fucking reckless and  _ stupid _ . 

He gave Ralphie a little show with looking Hannah up and down slow, “Not done with you. Wait in my room.”

The blonde giggled, tucking her hair behind her ear like she was blushing as she reached for his arm, tugging on his sleeve, then turned and left, making her way down the hallway towards Mickey’s room. Ralphie rolled his eyes at Mickey, leading the way to the meeting room. 

He was so fucking thrown off course, Mickey didn’t even register any of his surroundings until he was sitting at the table in the meeting room, next to his brothers. He felt like he just stepped into the fucking twilight zone. 

_ What the fuck was that? _

Terry was sitting at the head of the table, of course. He had his beer and ashtray beside him, like they always were. Mickey looked beside him at Sully, only getting a slight shrug in response.

“Now that we’re all here… here’s what’s going on,” Terry cleared his throat. He was too calm. He pointed to Iggy, “You were shot at because you can’t keep your dick in your fucking pants, and you knocked up this _ Lil’ Oso’s _ cousin.” 

Colin reached over and hit Iggy upside the head. Sully sighed. Mickey groaned, elbows on the table, head in his hands.

Terry continued over the interruption, “Your ass is lucky he wasn’t there today, with how you handled shit. You woulda been shot the fuck up, and this would be a very fucking different meeting.”

“The fuck is wrong with you,” Mickey spoke to Iggy, but looked at the ceiling for any signs of a higher power to beam him the fuck up. “You’re out here fucking skanks left and right without a fucking rubber, then going home to Jess?”

“Shut up,” Terry snapped at Mickey. “Haven’t even gotten to  _ you _ yet, you’ll get your turn.”

Quietly, Iggy finally spoke up. Mickey looked over at his brother, seeing how fucking pale he looked, his eyes wide, “Ines is pregnant?”

Wait. Mickey frowned. Sully looked at Mickey like he was asking if Iggy was for real right now; Mickey didn’t have an answer.

Something was up. The old timers, sans Terry, all exchanged uncomfortable glances. Mickey didn’t follow… until he did. His brows rose high as his mouth decided he was going to speak up first, “Please don’t fucking tell me what I think happened, happened.”

Terry cast him a dark look before he continued talking to Iggy, “We couldn’t have that, son.” Terry never called his sons  _ son _ , but his tone left no room for argument. This wasn’t a comforting  _ son _ . God, this fucker was truly something else. “The problem’s been taken care of, and you’re fucking welcome for that… now our ties with Brown are good again, despite you four almost fucking that shit up too. No one makes any more moves on Brown, do we understand—”

“What?” Iggy’s quiet question cut Terry off. “What do you mean?”

Mickey got a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. This has only happened, while he’s been around, one other time (that he can remember; that he knows about). That was before he and Iggy were even patched in to the club. That had been a fucked up day; even Mickey and his brother weren’t allowed in the clubhouse that day --no one but members.

It was like the closer he got to leaving, the more of the bad he was actually fucking  _ seeing,  _ the more he was actually wanting to get the fuck out. This club used to be one of the only things that made sense to Mickey. He knew how it worked, he knew who he had to be. He still loves the club. But looking around at what he was brought up around, who he was raised around… what the fuck. It was like someone was finally,  _ slowly _ , pulling the blinders away from Mickey’s eyes, and he was starting to see things for what they really were.

He wonders if he never went to prison… if he never found out about that fed’s family… if he and Ian never got caught… he wonders what side he’d be on right now. He’s not sure he’s going to like the answer, so he doesn’t dwell on it. 

“They made her kill it, Ig,” Mickey told his brother. He wanted to  _ want  _ to play their game, wanted to show support of this decision, but he fucking couldn’t. Not on this. Mickey looked over at Iggy, shaking his head, “It would’ve been mixed.” 

“Jesus Christ,” Sully whispered, ran his hands over his face. 

Mickey tried not to look at his friend; if he looked at Sully, and Sully looked like he was ready to step up to the old timers, then Mickey wouldn’t have a choice but to back him up. They were ride-or-die. But they couldn’t, as  _ much _ as Mickey wanted. Jasmine was going to have to be on some major feel-better shit for Sully.

“It had to be done,” Colin said.

“Oh fuck you,” Mickey threw out at his oldest brother. He looked around at the old timers, Terry included. There was so much he wanted to scream, but he held it in. “What kind of soulless shit...” he shakes his head. It’s the only thing he can think to say, and he couldn’t even finish. He didn’t need to say it though. They knew. He knew they knew.

Colin made a disgusted sounding scoff, “Okay  _ Saint Mickey _ , was there another fucking option? You think he’s gonna bring his half breed bastard home to live with Jess and their two kids —or was the little bitch gonna take it and raise a fucking Milkovich over in beanertown?”

Iggy abruptly stood, his chair screeching terribly over the floor. Everybody froze. He didn’t say anything. For a moment, Iggy just stared at Terry; Terry stared right back, unapologetic. Then he stared at Colin, lip curling back just barely, like he was restraining himself. It was tense as hell in that room, near suffocating.

Iggy isn’t a terribly deep person, and he’s far from a scholar... but he  _ felt _ shit. Mickey knew that much. Iggy felt a lot. 

Mickey’s seen him with his wife, he’s good to her, in his own right. They fight on and off, and Iggy doesn’t have a monogamous bone in his body, but they stay together for the kids. It was a classic biker romance between a small town slutty trailer park girl in the big city, and a newly patched in stoner who couldn’t keep it in his pants. 

Iggy loves her in the sense that Jess is the mother of his children and is part of the family... she’s in the circle. Which in turn gives her certain unconditional protections and status in South Side that was more or less invaluable. Iggy’s even loyal in his own way — fiercely protective just like a good Milkovich, he’s gotten in some brutal fights defending her… honor? Jess probably had every fucking Iron Eagles cock down her throat before she got with Iggy, but she was cool. Hell, she rolled better joints than Mickey, and that was saying something.

But Iggy’s not _ in love _ ; only married her because he knocked her up, and they were young and dumb, and so very fucking high. 

This though… Iggy felt this. It was all over his face. He felt  _ all _ of this. Maybe Iggy wasn’t in love with his  _ wife… _ but could he really have been in love with… fuck. 

“We’re not done,” Terry was stern as he glared hard at Iggy. “Sit back down.”

Mickey can’t remember if there was ever a time Iggy pushed back against Terry, in a real way. Sure he was always fucking high, and he was always into dumb shit… but he was a damn good soldier. He was obedient to a fucking fault.

“Let him take five,” Ralphie spoke up with a nonchalant shrug. “Clear his head.”

Terry sent Ralphie a raised brow before returning his gaze of iron to Iggy, “You need to go clear your head?” It was a trap.

Mickey wanted so fucking badly to stop this shit. But he fucking couldn’t. He had to tow the line, he had to fucking focus. No matter how fucked up shit was getting, no matter how much he just wanted to run right fucking now, run and never look back… there was a plan. And that plan was to play along, collect funds, get the confession, then get the fuck out. He could talk to Iggy later, he could get him a beer and some weed, he could deal with that outside of this fucking clubhouse, away from all this bullshit.

Terry just took and  _ took  _ from his children. He was greedy and selfish, and would never change. For anyone. Ever. 

Iggy looked like he wanted to say something. But he didn’t, not what he really wanted to say anyway. Mickey’s felt bad for his brothers before, but not like this. This was fucking cruel. Iggy felt something for that girl. Ines, Mickey remembered. Her name’s Ines.

Iggy said, clearing his throat, “I’m good.” Then sat back down. Because Iggy is a really fucking damn good soldier. And this club is going to kill him one day because of that. 

Mickey watched Iggy lean back in his chair, looking like he wanted to fold in on himself. He wouldn’t speak for the rest of the meeting. 

“I don’t think I should have to say this,” Terry kept his eyes on Iggy. “But whatever the fuck was going on between you and that girl? It’s over.”

Iggy nodded. And wow it fucking sucked; Mickey wasn’t expecting to feel that for Iggy. It wasn’t like they were best friends, but they were brothers and that meant everything in this family. He wished he were more surprised by this whole thing. He wished that he were fucking shocked. He wasn’t. Not at all. Just disgusted. 

Iggy’s not that deep of a person, but seeing him deal with this fucking  _ sucked _ . He’s not that deep of a person, but at that very moment it was written all over the middle son’s face; this was the deepest cut he’d ever endured. And he couldn’t do shit about it, all he could do was stitch the wound and hope that it doesn’t fester. Because good soldiers obey.

“Now that  _ that’s _ over,” Terry continued on like they were just talking about something tedious like fucking taxes or something. He focused his attention on Mickey, “What the fuck were  _ you _ doing today?”

Mickey clenched his jaw tight, staring back at his father. “My job... what were  _ you _ doing?”

“You were told to wait,” Ralphie cut in before Terry could open his mouth. “You were told to wait, and you left to go fuck your side bitch.”

Mickey and Terry looked at each other again, waging a silent war. Mickey forced his mouth to stay in place, forced his body to still, forced his breathing to steady. He wanted to kill that motherfucker. He was so fucking done.

“S’that where you were?” Terry asked him.

Mickey shrugged, “Had to let off some steam.”

“Mickey…” Sonny sighed, finally fucking speaking up. “You took a big hit for us, and I get that after being locked up for that long, it’s hard to get back into the routine. But you’ve been… off.”

“That’s a fucking understatement,” Colin huffed.

It was completely out of Mickey’s hands. He always rolled his eyes at the term  _ the straw that broke the camel's back _ but in that moment, he was the fucking definition of it. He was like a bat out of hell, scrambling over Sully and Iggy to get to his big brother, fist flying towards the fucker’s face.

It hurt like hell when his fist connected with Colin’s jaw; Iggy and Sully were pulling Mickey back; the old timers were fucking yelling. Mickey just kept going, wanting to see fucking blood after today. 

He yelled until his throat was hoarse, taking a few hits from Colin when Sully and Iggy failed to keep them separated. Mickey tasted blood.

“Let them go!” Terry’s voice boomed; he banged his fist hard on the table.

Mickey’s thirteen years old, and he’s up next. He’s thirteen years old, shaking his fists out, getting ready to go up against Colin, no holds barred. Colin’s bigger and stronger, he’s  _ seventeen _ years old, but Mickey’s got a demon inside him. An angry, rabid demon. He’ll get him this time, he’ll win this time, he will.

He’s thirteen years old, and his father is the ref.

 

* * *

 

The bed was soft enough, but it was fucking uncomfortable under him. Mickey groaned in pain as he laid back against a stack of pillows. He hurt everywhere, couldn’t see that well out of his right eye. Ian was going to fucking freak.

Colin went home to be tended to by his old lady, after Terry finally allowed them to be pried away from each other. He didn’t declare a winner, the fuck. Regardless, the oldest and youngest Milkovich boys battered each other the fuck up in the meeting room, throwing each other around and getting hits in wherever they had the chance. Milkovich boys don’t pull back when they go a couple rounds, they were taught better than that.

An ice pack was gently placed against his swollen eye. Mickey nodded at Hannah, silently thanking her as he took the bag from her, taking care of himself. Fuck, he was exhausted.

“Listen, I’ve had a hell of a day,” Mickey sighed, watching Hannah sit on the edge of his bed. “So if you could tell me what the fuck your deal is, I’d really appreciate it.”

“My deal?”

Mickey took a deep breath, letting it out slow. He had exactly zero fucking patience for this. “Drop whatever fucking act your putting on, and tell me what you’re doing.”

It was quiet for a minute. Hannah looked like she was thinking. Mickey could wait. He could wait all fucking night for an answer. He was tired of whatever bullshit was going on. He was tired of fucking secrets --knowing how ironic that was. He was just tired.

Hannah went to lock his door, then came to sit next to him again, closer this time so she could speak quietly. Mickey sat up a little, wincing in pain, but he paid attention. “I followed you from Ian Gallagher’s apartment.”

Mickey’s entire mind went blank; he dropped the ice pack, “What?”

Hannah sighed, continuing on, “I’ve been undercover for a few months, to keep an eye on your father, keep tabs on him. I’m with Sanders and Torres.”

There was a fox in the henhouse.

“I’ve… fucked you,” there were  _ absolutely  _ better things to say, but that’s what came out.

“Yeah,” Hannah sighed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

Mickey struggled as he sat up, getting up from the bed. It hurt like a bitch but he clenched his teeth through it. He felt like he was going to be fucking sick. He couldn’t even stop and point out  _ one _ fucked up thing about today. Everything. Everything was fucked up. 

He’d been fucking a fed this whole fucking time? And he wasn’t even  _ enjoying  _ it?

“Oh my god,” Mickey shook his head, reaching for the carton of cigarettes on his dresser. He fucked a fed. “Holy fuck.”

“I know this looks bad,” Hannah said.

Mickey laughed, popping a cigarette between his lips, “How the fuck could this look bad?” He lit up, sucking nicotine down hard. “I got a fed in my club --sorry, better yet I’ve had a fed on my dick since I got out, and that fed has been fucking everyone _,_ and spying on us _\--undetected--_ for _months_. How could that _possibly_ look bad?”

For the first time, Mickey saw Hannah pissed. He finally got a good look at her though, for the first time that night. She pulled her hair up, and was donning jeans instead of her usual mini skirt, a twist of a snarl on her lips, “I haven’t been fucking everyone, so fuck you. But even if I was? So what. I’m an adult.”

Mickey shook his head at her, “The fuck am I supposed to do with this shit.” He raised one hand, making a general motion between them, “I can’t deal with this. I have  _ other  _ shit to deal with and now there’s a fucking skank fed in my…” Mickey took a deep breath before he started yelling. Fuck, he was burning up all over. “In my club. In my  _ club. _ ”

“You’re a little above the name-calling, don’t you think?” Hannah raised her chin in defiance.

Mickey shook his head, “You don’t know shit about me.”

“I know you’re gay.”

He didn’t have the energy to do anything else besides take a drag from his cigarette. If today hadn’t been today, Mickey knew his reaction would’ve been different, he would’ve given common sense the middle finger and instinctually denied that accusation. It wasn’t worth fighting back, wasn’t worth protesting. Anyways at this point, he’d just look like a delusional prick.

“Yeah,” he sighed. 

“It’s just been you and two others, by the way, not everyone,” Hannah said. “Not that I have to defend myself to you, because I sure as hell don’t. You do what you need to do for your job… I do what I need to do. It’s a job. That’s it.”

Mickey shook his head, “I really don’t give a fuck who’s been inside you, lady.”

“We haven’t even had sex in the last month,” Hannah said. “Did you know that?”

Mickey pulled a face, “Where the fuck have you been, yes we have.”

That time Hannah smirked a little, shrugging a shoulder, “It’s pretty easy to make men think you’ve fucked. Especially at club parties, when they’re wasted out of their minds.” She paused, giving him a sympathetic look. Then she added, “Plus it helps to know how to knock a drunk guy out with a pressure point if he gets too handsy.”

It was quiet for a moment, quiet and tense. Mickey didn’t know what to say.

“When I found out about about you… I couldn’t do that to you anymore,” she sniffed. “I didn’t want to put you through shit you shouldn’t have to go through. I know it’s fucked up and doesn’t make sense, but I thought making you  _ think _ we had sex was kinder somehow, than actually having sex when you didn’t want to.” 

He still didn’t have anything to come back at her. Mickey swallowed, clearing his throat as he turned away from Hannah, needing space. Though, he felt this odd sense of relief, and he wasn’t sure if it made sense. 

“I couldn’t tell you anything. Couldn’t tell you about me, about what I knew, nothing. I shouldn’t even be telling you now, I could get kicked off the case or worse.”

“Then why are you?” Mickey asked.

She reached for his cigarette, taking a drag from it before handing it back, “I’m cashing in my good deed for the year, taking this off your plate. You need to focus, Mickey. You went off the rails for almost a month. Plus, as far as I’m concerned, this makes both of our lives easier.”

He was so fucking  _ tired _ of people telling him he was failing, “How the fuck am I supposed to--”

“Mickey,” Hannah cut him off. “I haven’t known you long, but I’ve been paying close attention around here for a while… I’ve heard and seen a  _ lot  _ of shit. So I can’t even imagine what this has been like for you, having Terry as a father. But listen, let what happened today blow over and let me cover for you  _ here _ so you’re not worried about this  _ one _ thing. You can trust me.”

She didn’t understand, it wasn’t like he could just fucking…  _ be _ . He couldn’t not worry about keeping up appearances, he couldn’t risk it. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“Yes, I do,” Hannah replied. “Mickey, do you  _ know _ how much you all fucking talk in front of us girls? I  _ promise _ you… no one in this club thinks you’re gay. You can  _ pretty much _ live your life, outside of this building, for the next several months. You have to still keep an eye out, and don’t be stupid, but…  _ live _ . Your father doesn’t leave the club, and absolutely one is looking for anything  _ gay _ from you. It’s not on their radar, Mickey. You  _ know  _ Terry hasn’t said shit to anyone about that.”

Mickey paused, stubbing his cigarette, “How do you know he knows?”

Hannah sighed heavily, “Because, I know you don’t think so, but I’m really fucking smart… and I’m  _ really _ good at my job. And you, gay son of a complete monster, are married to the lesbian daughter of another monster. Put two and two together, here.”

He may have blacked out; the next thing Mickey knew, he was in Hannah’s face, “You better check what you fucking  _ think _ you know about her.”

Svetlana’s a bitch most of the time, but she was in Mickey’s circle. And the only way Hannah knew that about Svetlana was if they had eyes on her. 

“Mickey,” Hannah warned, she kept her voice low but stern, not backing down. “I’m a federal agent, you need to step back.”

“Leave her alone,” Mickey said. He did step back though; couldn’t get into it with the feds when he was trying to get his old man locked up. Heat coursed up and down his veins, revving his engine up. There was a fucking fed undercover in the club, and he couldn’t do anything about it.

“I’m not a threat to you,” Hannah told him. 

“I don’t know that.”

“Yes you do,” Hannah said. 

Mickey clenched his jaw, trying to unpack the last several minutes as quick as he could. How the fuck was this happening? “Was that the plan this whole time? You get with me while you’re here and keep an eye on me, to make sure I’m not fucking you all over? You all never fucking trusted me.”

Hannah shoved the ice pack back into Mickey’s hands, “Believe it or not, that was not the plan.”

He pressed the ice pack to his eye, hissing from the cold. “Yeah, that sounds like bullshit.”

“Oh my god, Mickey… if you remember correctly, we fucked  _ before _ you knew anything about  _ anything _ , and I had already been here,” Hannah rolled her eyes at him. She folded her arms in front of her and shook her head, laughing. “Honestly? I came on to you at your party because I thought you were cute... and you weren’t trying to shove your tongue down my throat and your hand up my skirt. And that was kind of a breath of fresh air. So I thought… I might as well have a little fun with a guy who isn’t trying fingerbang me by the keg.”

Mickey sighed, eyeing her carefully. “Easier to do your job claimed too, huh?” 

There was very little ground to stand on. They were using each other to cover their own asses. And this chick has been staying under the radar flawlessly, he had to give that to her at the very fucking least. Fucking hated this shit though.

Hannah nodded, “Exactly.”

“Please don’t tell me I opened up Pandora’s fucking box here, and you all aren’t gonna take my club down.”

“I can’t say if that is or  _ isn’t  _ going to happen, but if something like that were to happen, that would be a hundred percent Terry’s fault, and out of my hands anyways. All I will say is that we’ve been watching  _ him  _ for a long time,” Hannah said. She spoke clearly, getting her message across. “The city is bigger than South Side, and there are a lot of problems that are bigger than a motorcycle club.”

“Okay,” Mickey nodded. 

She grabbed her purse from his dresser, then pointed to his bed. “Pants off, and get back in bed. I’m going to go get you dinner…  I’ll send one of the girls in with something for your back.”

Mickey was so completely over trying to figure shit out. He sighed, dropped his pants, and went to his bed, climbing under the covers while Hannah left his room, leaving the door open. He was too tired to get up and close it again, so he left it. 

Not ten seconds later, Sully’s frame came into his doorway. “Knock knock. How ya feeling, Mayweather?”

Mickey groaned, trying to shift into a comfortable position, then groaned again when Sully put a bottle of water on his nightstand. Ever since the three week bender, people have been handing him a lot of water bottles when he’s been expecting a cold beer. It’s kind of bullshit, but the cold water feels good going down his throat, so whatever. 

He shook his head, “I feel like I haven’t fought my brother since I was a teenager. And I’m not a fucking teenager anymore.”

“You broke his nose for sure,” Sully smiled. “Probably a couple bruised ribs, he was bitching about it.”

Mickey smiled back, despite his split lip stinging. “Good.” 

He could definitely feel that he had a bruised rib or two. Not broken, he’s had broken and thankfully this was not that. But if Colin had a broken nose, and he had  _ nothing  _ broken… that means Mickey fucking won. 

Sully chuckled, leaning against the edge of Mickey’s dresser, crossing his arms. “Haven’t seen you all fight like that in forever.”

“It was coming,” Mickey said. “Colin’s wanting that president patch when my old man either gives it up or dies.”

“Whatever comes first,” Sully said. 

Mickey nodded, looking around his room. He wanted to tell Sully about Hannah. He should. Right? He’ll wait, run it by Ian and Svetlana, see what they say. 

One of the girls came to Mickey’s doorway; cute brunette girl with a little bit of ink. She was holding a... heating pad? She didn’t step into the room though, waiting until Mickey waved her in. Girls come and go all the time in this place, so Mickey didn’t know her name. But he noticed her grin at Sully, and Sully grin back. 

“Hey Sull,” the girl said as she walked past him to get to Mickey. 

Mickey arched a questioning brow at his best friend. Sully wasn’t even fucking paying attention though, he was too busy checking out the girls ass when she leaned over to plug the heating pad in. 

“Hey Jenna,” Sully finally replied. 

Mickey rolled his eyes, leaning forward so Jenna could put the pad behind him. This was a little fucking much, Mickey knew. He hated this doting club bunny shit, but it was the way everything worked, so he fucking had to let her do her thing or else that shit looked weak and god  _ fucking _ forbid... 

“Do you need anything?” Jenna asked Mickey. 

Mickey nodded, “Yeah, a fucking beer actually.”

Jenna nodded back, then seemed to hesitate before she turned to leave. Mickey heard the question before she opened her mouth with an uncertain, “You sure?”

Fuck this. 

“Go get him a beer, Jenna,” Sully cut in. “Get me one too.”

She nodded and left. 

“That shit has to fucking stop,” Mickey told Sully. “I’m fine.”

Sully sighed, but grinned at him, “People like you, they don’t want you to slip again.”

The heating pad was hot as shit on his back but it felt fucking good. He didn’t normally do the heating pad bullshit routine, didn’t normally do much after a fight but take a hot shower, knock back an oxy and sleep. He could get used to the pad though. 

“Iggy doesn’t get this shit. Iggy’s  _ permanently _ fucked up.”

“Yeah, but we expect it from him.” Sully said. “That’s just Iggy.”

Mickey worked his lips from side to side in thought. Enough of this. He didn’t want to talk about it anymore. He let the silence stretch longer though, let words hang in their air around him so he could look at them before things shifted. 

“Bad day today,” he said. He got a cigarette out of his pack, lighting up. 

“Yeah,” Sully breathed a humorless laugh. “I can’t believe they did it.”

“I can,” Mickey shook his head. 

“But it would’ve been a Milkovich,” Sully tried to reason. “It was blood.”

“No. It was Brown,” Mickey countered. “You know how the old timers think, Sull. Especially my old man. He’d cut his leg off before he let something like that happen.”

“But I don’t get how  _ Brown  _ could be okay with that shit though,” Sully scoffed. “Aren’t they all deeply fucking religious and all that?”

Mickey took a long drag, cocking his head in thought. “Yeah but you think they want any connections to us, besides business? My dad’s a fucking skinhead, Colin ain’t that much better  _ apparently _ , Iggy’s a fucking ignorant drug addict — _ and _ he’s married with two kids already, and  _ I’m  _ the piece of shit that took out one of their soldiers. They don’t want any fucking  _ part _ of this. Who would?”

“Fuck,” Sully sighed.

“Yeah.”

“You think he likes her? He looked torn up.”

“No,” Mickey breathed, ashing his cigarette. “No, I think he actually fucking loves her or something.”

Sully ran a hand over his hair. “Shit. What the fuck was this day?”

“You let me know when you find out,” Mickey took another drag.

It was a lot later, when Mickey saw Iggy again. His brother was sitting on his bike, that was parked next to Mickey’s bike. But Iggy just sat there, staring out into the mostly empty parking lot with a burning cigarette between his fingers --wasn’t even smoking it.

Maybe there was more to his brother than Mickey thought.

Mickey sat on his bike, reaching over to give Iggy a gentle shove to get his attention. “Ay.”

Iggy finally looked over at him, nodding once. “Ay.”

He didn’t know what to say. Mickey wasn’t the comforter in the family… there was  _ no _ comforter in the fucking family, actually. He was at a loss. “You okay?”

Iggy took a drag from his cigarette after he ashed off the excess. “You ever get tired of this shit?”

Mickey swallowed.  _ Yes _ . “I dunno… it’s what we do, man.”

Iggy shook his head, looking down at his bike under him, “Eh. M’fucking tired.”

“They’re fucked up,” Mickey said. “That was wrong. Doing that to you and that girl was fucking wrong.”

Iggy shrugged, tossing his cigarette out into the parking lot. “Doesn’t matter, it’s over. Just some piece’a ass.” His dismissive laugh didn’t reach his eyes. “Fuck I need another kid for, huh?”

_ Damnit _ . Mickey saw the walls climb higher and higher around his brother, and it happened so fucking fast like Iggy caught himself feeling for a moment, so he had to cover it up with dirt right away. Mickey can spot that shit a mile away, because he’s the fucking master of it.

“Gotta get home,” Iggy cleared his throat. He turned his bike on, revving the engine. 

This was fucking sad. This was terrible. 

All Mickey did was nod, because there was absolutely nothing else he could say that would ever reach his brother. Iggy loves that girl. Ines. He fucking loves her, and Terry took her away from him. Terry just took and took and took, he was a parasite, he was a fucking disease.

Iggy rode away. 

Mickey made a decision. 

 

* * *

 

He knocked on the door. Waited. It was late. 

_ You can pretty much live your life, outside of this building, for the next several months. You have to still keep an eye out, and don’t be stupid, but… live.  _

“I gotta talk to you,” He said when the door opened. 

Mandy arched a brow at him, “What do you have to talk about at one in the morning?”

“Everything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full disclosure: for the Spanish phrases/sentences, I used an online translator, and I know those can’t always be reliable. The single words, I’ve just picked up and heard from living where I do aka my barely preschool level knowledge of Spanish lmao (fully acknowledging that different areas/dialects have different meanings. These are just from my own experiences in soflo)
> 
> Cabrón -jerk/bastard/son of a bitch  
> Madre -mother  
> Esé -homeboy/bro kinda  
> Pendejo -idiot/dumbass  
> Bolillo -white bread (it’s my understanding this is supposed to be very derogatory towards whites, if I’m wrong tho, either way it works lol)  
> Oso -bear  
> “estás muerto! Toda tu familia está muerta!” -you’re dead! Your whole family is dead!”  
> Vato -dude, basically.  
> Chato -this one has multiple meanings, I’ve heard… can be like calling someone a stoner, could be like calling someone short or flat/boring. In this case chato is for short.  
> Puto -offensive for gay men, not necessarily comparable to f*ggot (tho it could be idk), but more like calling someone a bitch/hooker, I'm pretty sure the literal definition is a male prostitute. If I’m wrong I’m sorry lol but at least you know what I was shooting for. I know there’s the other word that is comparable to f*aggot, but tbh I didn’t want to use it.
> 
> <3 hope y'all enjoyed! And obviously again thank you so much to Christina for beta'ing this for me, and having patience with my anxious, second-guessing ass lmao you are a an absolute peach <333


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter would be my usual mess without [Christina](http://grumblesandmumbles.tumblr.com), a fucking superstar <3
> 
> and uhh... yeah, brace yourselves.

_There’s yelling in the kitchen like usual when Ian gets to the Milkovich house —he doesn’t knock; doesn’t need to anymore, Terry got tired of having to walk ten feet from the couch to the door whenever he came around. Ian can’t suppress the eye roll when he hears several slurs fired out about the black family two doors down. Terry’s fucking gross, and Ian swears every day that he has to be in the same vicinity of the man, he hates him more._

_He makes a beeline for Mickey’s room, passing Iggy in the hallway. His usual joint is tucked neatly behind his ear; they nod at each other in greeting. Mandy’s in her room, there’s music blasting behind her door; he’ll see her later._

_Again, he doesn’t knock on the door in front of him. But he does smirk at Mickey’s janky ass sign constructed from a piece of cardboard and duct tape. Svetlana’s already there, perched on Mickey’s bed with her science book in her lap. She looks up when the door opens and smiles big, “There he is. You’re late.”_

_“He’s always fucking late,” Mickey belched; he cracked a beer open, his eyes smiling at Ian when he took a drink._

_Ian shook his head at him, laughing despite the heat blooming in his cheeks, “Yeah? At least I show up.”_

_Svetlana snorted from the bed. Mickey flipped him off before he flung himself down on his bed next to her, reaching for his own science book._

_“Let’s get this shit over with,” Mickey said. He hated science._

_When Ian didn’t move right away, Mickey raised his brows at him, “You gonna sit, or you gonna stand there with your dick in your hands all night?”_

_For the second time since he’d entered the Milkovich house, Ian rolled his eyes. But he got his science book out of his backpack, and he crammed on the bed with his two friends. He decides to sit next to Svetlana instead, making her sit in the middle. Mickey gets so warm and they have to all cram together, it’s just too much. Mickey is so warm…_

_Ian is fourteen years old, and he’s got a huge gay crush on his straight best friend._

_He also has been acting weird around Mickey lately, he knows he has. He’s not sitting next to Mickey anymore; he’s keeping any and all physical contact to the bare minimum. It’s just a little hard to navigate what to do when you’re a gay kid with a crush on Mickey Milkovich, even when you’re his best friend. Probably_ especially _when you’re his best friend._

_After homework, Mickey rolls a joint while Svetlana tears through all of his tapes and CD’s to find something decent. Mickey’s got hundreds. He’s got so much music, and most of it is kind of loud and terrible, but Ian listens to it anyways._

_Ian can’t keep his eyes off of Mickey’s hands while he rolls. He loves the shitty tattoos across his knuckles, even though he thinks Mickey will regret them later in life. They’re so badass. Mickey’s badass, so maybe he won't regret them. He doesn’t even try to be a badass, he just is. And when the brunette raises the joint to his lips, the tip of his tongue poking out to lick the paper, Ian has to shift where he sits a little._

_Mickey’s got a nice mouth, and Ian is fourteen with the hormones to prove it._

_He shouldn’t think his best friend is hot. He shouldn’t want to slide his hand over across the bed and grab onto Mickey’s hand; he shouldn’t want to kiss him. Mickey’s not gay. It’s not a possibility, it just isn’t. Terry would kill him, and if he didnt kill him, Mickey could never be in the Iron Eagles. So he’s off limits forever._

_Sometimes, Ian lets himself daydream. Sometimes he thinks wouldn’t it be fucking crazy if one day Mickey turned around and confessed that he was gay? Sometimes he fantasizes about Mickey looking at him a certain way. He fantasizes about these out-of-reach scenarios —that Mickey is like him, and not only that, but he likes Ian and wants to be with him too, wants to be more than friends, want to be… boyfriends._

_It would never happen, and Ian knows that he gives his hopes up all the time. But it’s Mickey. And he doesn’t know how great he is, but he is —Mickey thinks he’s a piece of shit. Ian doesn’t get how Mickey can think that about himself, how he couldn’t see himself._

_Mickey was great. Probably the best person Ian had ever known. He wasn’t perfect. At all. But if he was perfect, he wouldn’t be Mickey. And Ian liked_ Mickey _. He was his best friend._

_However… and there is always a however, isn’t there._

_The truth is that Mickey would probably react badly if Ian told him he liked him. He didn’t care that Ian was gay... as long as he didn’t have to hear about it, or see it. He always pulled faces and walked away when Ian talked about a boy he liked. He said things like “Don’t wanna hear about that shit.”_

_One time Ian had enough, and they got into it. Svetlana had to break it up, because Ian didn’t care about all the other bullshit that surrounded his best friend… Ian wasn’t_ scared _of Mickey Milkovich. They used to pretend to be goddamn Power Rangers together. (Mickey was blue. Ian was red. Of course.)_

_It’s fucked up that Mickey makes comments or drops a slur about someone, and he_ knows _it bothers Ian, so he usually shuts up after getting a look that says to do just that. Usually._

_Mickey shuts his mouth because he loves Ian like a brother, and as much of a dick as he can be sometimes, he doesn’t want to actually hurt Ian. Mickey would beat someone down for him, would step up to anyone who looked sideways at Ian or called him anything other than his name. He was a true ride or die friend like that._

_He had a good heart. He just said_ really _ignorant shit sometimes, and that was frustrating as hell, because Ian liked him so fucking much. Because he knew Mickey, under all the bullshit. He knew everything about him, and knew how he was raised. (Just look at the kids father… like he had a_ choice _to start out any differently.)_

_Ian knew he could move past this crush given time. Once he got a real boyfriend that he could really be with —someone not Kash, because he couldn’t really be with him, not for real._

_Mickey hates Kash, calls him the worst shit, and Ian doesn’t know why he doesn’t stand up for the older man, but he doesn’t. Truth is, there’s a part of Ian that doesn’t like Kash either. He’s convenient, buys him nice things, lets him take breaks at work whenever Ian wants._

_Both Lip_ and _Mickey tell him he’s a kept boy. Ian fights with them about it, though deep down he sees what they mean. He doesn’t want to be a kept boy. So once he got himself a real, true boyfriend… he could move on. He would._

_“Ay,” Mickey’s voice cut through, pulling Ian out of his thoughts. He was holding out the lit joint, smoke spilling from his lips as he spoke. “Where’d you go?”_

_Ian clears his throat; shakes his head while he takes the joint. He laughs it off, “M’here.”_

_Svetlana decided on Pantera._

Ian breathes deeply as he jogs up the stairs towards his door. He’s sweaty and stinky, and just wants to stick his head under a rush of water for a good thirty minutes. Finally getting back into his regular running routine feels good as hell, and the weather has been great for running too, the tail end of summer carrying cool breezes. He grins to himself, leaning against the door frame as he goes to fish his keys out of his pocket. He felt good. A lot of other shit was on his mind, little worries about everything else going on. But he still felt good knowing that he and Mickey—

Unlocked? When he put the key in the lock and turned it… there was no slide of metal inside the door. There was no resistance against the key. The door was already unlocked. Ian swallowed hard, sliding the key back out of the lock.

Worst case scenarios, at least ten of them, immediately popped up in Ian’s mind. Most of those worst case scenarios begun with Terry being on the other side of that door. Did they fuck up? Did they slip? He always locked the door, he _never_ forgot, never _let_ himself forget. Ian was fucking South Side, he didn’t leave his home and _not_ lock the door.

Didn’t even have anything on him to protect himself. Fuck. He looked down at himself, his hand holding his keys. That’s all he had —Ian remembers what Mandy had taught Debbie way back when, how she taught Debbie to slip her keys into the spaces between her fingers. _Don’t stop swinging and go for the eyes_ , Mandy had told her.

When he reached for the doorknob, he took a step back; it was already turning. Ian took a deep breath, slipping his keys between his fingers, making a hard fist. Fuck, he really wished he had the baseball bat right about now.

The knob turned more. Ian braced himself, holding his other hand up in front of him, ready to grab the motherfucker as soon as that door swung open. The fear was melting away, and “pissed” was quickly filling up the void. Because who was in his apartment? That’s _his_ space, it’s _his_.

In the first second, the door swung open.

In the second, Ian grabbed the front of a black shirt and rushed forward.

In the third, he got a knee to the groin and was blindsided by the pain.

By the fourth, he was blearily blinking up at the ceiling.

All Ian could do was shakily reach down and press his hand against the front of his shorts, groaning miserably. He curled up and rolled to his side, protecting himself from whatever was about to happen next that he was absolutely not going to be able to counter. It radiated. It fucking _radiated_ through his whole body, and any thoughts of home invasion dissolved.

After no other attack came, he rolled onto his back again; Ian squinted, panting. Someone was looking down at him. In that moment between looking and _seeing_ , Ian’s body tightened in defense and fear… then he immediately fell boneless against the floor. It was Mandy. Looking pissed as hell.

“What the fuck?” Mandy put her hands on her hips, her head shaking.

Ian was breathless, shaking his head back at her in exasperation, was she for real? “You fucking _kneed_ me?!”

“You were gonna hit me!”

“I didn’t know it was you! You came out of _my_ fucking apartment!”

Mandy rolled her eyes, sticking her hand out for Ian to grab. “Come on.”

After Mandy helped him up, and Ian had put himself back together —man, she _really_ fucking kneed him. Ian gave a middle finger at the face Mandy had made from him reaching down to make sure his dick was in one piece —he needed that.

Then he turned around to lead the way into his apartment.

Mickey was there in the doorway, hands shoved into his pockets; he nodded at Ian, not needing to say anything, not needing to explain. Ian couldn’t breathe. He felt so much so fast, and his chest he swore was going to rip open, he didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know what to ask. Mickey’d been in a fight recently, though, he could tell that much for sure by the bruise around his right eye and scrape under his chin… there were probably more.

Mickey did that thing where he cleared his throat and inhaled sharply, turning away from the door, going back inside. The sound of repression, of pulling back when he wanted to do the opposite. Ian saw it in Mickey’s eyes for that brief moment... that want to go to him, to be held, to be silent and safe in their own bubble. He wouldnt in front of Mandy, Ian knew that for sure. The thought of Mickey actually reaching out for him in front of anyone but Svetlana almost made Ian laugh. He would one day, Ian knew, but that day sure as _hell_ wasn’t today.

What Ian also knew —from that brief moment in blue eyes and by the way Mickey retreated back into Ian’s apartment, into a place he had deemed _safe_ — was that Mickey told her everything.

He told her _everything_ everything. Unexpected was an understatement.

Ian did want this. He did. It was just a lot out of nowhere. One thing about the two youngest Milkovich kids that Ian could never say was that they didn’t keep him on his toes.

It was also a relief, though, truly. He had hated lying every time Mickey came up in conversation with Mandy, he hated that he made himself act like he wasn’t rotting inside for the past six years to the point where he started to believe it —before Mandy told him Mickey had finally been released. Then Ian had been smacked in the face with the truth about himself.

She finally knew. Thank fucking _god_ , she finally knew.

“Ian,” Mandy’s voice was softer this time. He felt her touch his shoulder. He finally looked over at her, and her whole demeanor had changed, her face fallen and soft; her eyes were glassy.

She raised her arms at him, and Ian went to her without question or hesitation, burying his face into the crook of her neck, letting out a much needed exhale. She held him tight and rubbed his back. She spoke softly to him, “It’s going to be okay.”

Ian nodded. He believed her. Didn’t know why, but he did.

It wasn’t just Mickey in Ian’s apartment. Svetlana was there too, hopped up on the kitchen counter while Mickey sat at the table. Ian had walked in ahead of Mandy; he gave Svetlana a soft smile that she returned to him immediately. This was fucking surreal.

All that came out of Ian’s mouth when he opened it was, “How the hell did you get in?” if only to break the tension. Ian only had _one_ key, and it was currently in his pocket.

It was such a nice relief to see Mickey crack a little peek of a grin as he rolled his eyes, “Why you acting like we need a key to get in places?”

Of course. Ian huffed a small laugh, not really knowing what else to do. He didn’t know what to say, if he needed to say anything. No one needed to clarify why they were here. This was it. Today was the day they made a new plan. With both Mandy and Svetlana, they were fucking unstoppable.

He was suddenly more aware of the state of himself, how he was still pretty sweaty and most likely smelled like it too. He couldn’t think like this, and he needed a minute to process the fact that his deeply closeted boyfriend told Mandy everything, that he spilled his guts for his sister.

God, he was so brave, Ian loved him so much.

Ian cleared his throat, filling up the short silence, “Uh, I need to jump in the shower real quick first.” They all nodded, but Ian hesitated before he left the kitchen, turning to Mickey, “Can I talk to you a sec?”

Mickey visibly tensed up, and Ian wanted to protest it but he held it in. These hang-ups weren’t necessarily steps _backwards_ for Mickey, but they sure as fuck didn’t propel him forward. Ian understood. He knew. He just wanted more for Mickey.

Svetlana was the one to speak up, and by the crease in her brow, Ian knew she was just helping him out. “I... have to talk to Mandy anyways.”

When they got into Ian’s bedroom, Ian closed the door behind him and turned to Mickey. The brunette just stood there, quiet as the fucking grave. He’d done so much talking and confessing in the last however many hours, Ian thought, that his body needed to catch up with the rest of him. He looked tired as hell. All Ian really wanted to do is get Mickey in bed, get him sleeping, get him comfortable and feeling secure. He probably felt so _raw_. Ian had this overwhelming need to take care of him, though right now he couldn’t.

Ian didn’t say anything. He reached for Mickey, hands holding his face. Tired blue eyes looked right back into his green ones, but Mickey’s brows finally seemed to relax along with his shoulders. Ian carefully ran his thumb under Mickey’s bruised cheek, wishing he could make it go away. Couldn’t help but frown at the bruise, at the way Mickey’s eyes dropped to look at the floor for a second.

Ian kissed him. Mickey kissed him back.

“I’m proud of you,” Ian whispered soft against full lips. Stepped closer, fingers sliding into dark hair. “I’m _so_ fucking proud of you.”

Mickey kissed him again.

 

* * *

 

“There’s only one option I can think of,” Mandy said. “There’s nothing else left, if Lana’s fucking _baby_ didn’t even work.”

They’d moved to Ian’s living room, which wasn’t that much bigger than the kitchen, but whatever. Svetlana, Ian and Mickey were all on Ian’s couch —well, Svetlana and Mickey were on the couch, and Ian took the arm of the couch next to Mickey, sitting his bony ass up there. Mandy stood, puffing on a cigarette, keeping it away from Svetlana.

It felt like back in the day when they were all shitty teenagers, planning something equally shitty.

There was this one time they ran this moving-truck scam; real risky, but they pulled it off. Scored some serious cash; Ian dropped his shares into the squirrel fund. Mickey paid the bills at the Milkovich house for a few months, because Terry never did, despite having the money. Prick.

Ian forgot how much he missed this. He forgot how good it felt to be around all of them at the same time.

It was home, his home. Being with them. He’d never felt at home in the house he grew up in, even around his family. He always felt a little off, a little on the outskirts. Not here. Not with them.

“Well?” Mickey prompted.

“The _problem_ is that you’ve been pushing back against dad too much since you got out. You’ve been challenging him left and right, calling him out in front of the old timers, going fucking rogue on the NCK retaliation...” Mandy told Mickey, raising her brows at him. She must have been getting that information from Svetlana.

Before he protested, Mandy spoke over him, “You have, and you know it. You’re angry, and you have _every_ fucking right to be, but you can’t expect him to tell you shit if he thinks you’re _challenging_ him, Mickey.”

“You don’t know how this shit works,” Mickey mumbled under his breath.

“Oh fuck off with that, Mickey. I grew up in the same fucking house as you,” Mandy sucked her teeth at him. Ian knew better than to get in the middle of a Mickey and Mandy spat. “All of you guys are the fucking same, you walk around thinking you’re _something_ , when you’re just…” she trailed off, shaking her head and huffing a humorless laugh.

“What?” Mickey leaned forward, brows high. “We’re just what?”

Mandy never backed down from her older brothers. Not a one. “You’re all angry, scared, selfish little boys on bikes, who follow a fucking _pedophile_. That’s what.”

“Mandy,” Mickey warned.

“No. They fucking _knew_ what he was and they—”

“Woah, okay,” Ian _and_ Svetlana actually did cut in because Mickey was about to stand up and start yelling to defend himself and the club (not Terry, obviously, but the club would always have Mickey’s loyalty). He put a gentle hand on Mickey’s shoulder. “We’re _not_ doing this right now. You two wanna debate club politics, do it later.”

Mandy, after it had come out _for sure_ that Terry was… who he was… (after he beat Junior to death in front of the entire club) she had lost any bits respect for the actual institution of the club. That was the last straw for her, officially. They made him President, knowing what they knew. She didn’t hide her lack of respect very well. Ian couldn’t blame her in the least, because she was right.

It also didn’t help that Terry had pretty much cast her aside since birth. Completely forgotten, undervalued, and neglected (thank _Christ_ ) by Terry; it was the way of the Iron Eagles and the Milkoviches. Female? Useless unless you can produce more little boys to corrupt and raise to be monsters. It was grossly archaic and Mandy couldn’t get out of there fast enough once she figured out that her life didn't have to be that way.

“Watch it,” Mickey told Mandy.

“No.”

“Okay, listen,” Ian sighed. “No one in this room is going to argue that Terry isn’t a piece of shit. He is, and he needs to be locked away forever, okay? Just… focus on that. This isn’t about the _club_ , Mandy. It’s about Terry.”

“Fine,” she said, but rolled her eyes, taking a long drag from her cigarette.

“Let’s just… get back to the fucking plan, please?” Svetlana sighed. She looked at Mickey, giving a helpless shrug, “You know how he works. He needs to control everything, and if you keep pushing against him, the further he’s gonna push you out of the circle. You _have_ to get back on his good side.”

“Too fucking bad I’m on his shit list for the rest of my life,” Mickey snapped. “That ain’t changing.”

Ian clenched his fists, stopping himself from reaching over to Mickey again, not wanting to spook him at the wrong time. Ian _ached_ to touch Mickey, but the brunette couldn’t take that now. He wanted to reach for him, touch his hair soft like he likes, pull him close and cover him up for the rest of the day.

“You’ve got to _get_ on his good side,” Svetlana said softly, looking at Mickey. She glanced at Ian before her eyes went back to Mickey. “You have to make him believe you’d follow him to the end of the fucking earth again, and see you as President potential over Colin and Iggy, and even Sully.”

Ian huffed, shaking his head. He was kind of right there with Mickey at the moment. How the fuck was Mickey supposed to get on Terry’s “good side” (whatever the fuck that meant; as far as Ian and the rest of the world could tell, Terry didn’t _have_ a good side).

“You need to get the fuck back in line,” Mandy said. “Mickey you’ve got to be the best soldier he’s ever had _—again_. You’ve got to be better than Colin —you have to take his place. You _have_ to. For the next seven-eight months, you’re going to have to be _willingly_ under dad’s thumb.”

“Great,” Svetlana rolled her eyes, sarcasm dripping thickly from her voice.

Ian wanted to be sick. In other words, Mickey was going to have to be worse than Colin. He was going to have to be a monster, that was the only way Terry would ever respect him and love him again (as much as Terry was capable of love, that is). A sarcastic _great_ was a vast understatement.

“That it? Do my job?” Mickey’s voice was still hard when he asked.

Mandy came around the coffee table, sitting on it in front of Mickey. She took a deep breath, and Ian braced himself, seeing Mickey and Svetlana do the same thing out of the corner of his eye. For the first time that Ian had ever seen or heard, Mandy spoke gently to her brother.

“No. He tried to fix you,” she said. “He thinks that shit works. He believes in it.”

Mickey was silent and tense, his arms folding in front of him.

Ian hated this. He fucking hated seeing Mickey uncomfortable like this. “So, what he has to act straight? He already does that.”

Mandy shook her head, eyes staying on Mickey. Her voice shook, eyes getting watery, “Mickey, you’re gonna have to tell him it worked.”

Ian went blank.

“No,” Mickey snarled.

Svetlana brought her legs up, resting her feet on the couch cushion, “This is so fucked up.”

“You _have_ to tell him it worked. Tell him he was right,” Mandy choked on her words, her head shaking like she couldn’t believe these words were coming out of her mouth. “You want something from him, you _have_ to give him something back. He thinks he’s God, so tell him he is… you have to thank him.”

It was bordering on violent, how fast Mickey stood from the couch. He seethed as he moved, “Like _fuck_ I’m doing that, _fuck you_.”

They let him go. Ian heard his bedroom door slam.

“I need…” Svetlana trailed off before she got up off the couch. She left the living room, and Ian heard the front door open but not close; she was getting some much needed air.

Mandy covered her face, taking a deep breath, and all Ian could think to do was move to sit in front of her. Mickey and Svetlana both needed space right now, so Ian trying to comfort either one of them would only piss them off, so he had to wait.

The majorly fucked up thing about Mandy’s majorly fucked up plan? It was perfect. She was right. It had been right there in front of them this whole time, but they were too close to see it, too messed up from anger and trauma.

“Hey,” Ian spoke softly, reaching for Mandy’s hands, gently pulling them down so he could see her face.

She was crying, head shaking, “Fucking hate myself. I think I’m gonna be sick.”

Ian frowned, “Hate Terry, not yourself. You’re right. He knows you’re right.”

“I don’t want him to do that,” Mandy sniffed. “He shouldn’t have to do that, it’s not fucking right. I don’t want him _near_ that prick…”

“I know,” Ian nodded. He leaned forward and kissed Mandy’s forehead. “It’s not your fault. It’s the only thing that’s ever going to work, and he knows that.”

That was why Mickey was so angry. He was angry because he was going to have to do something no one should ever have to do. The thought of it made Ian sick. Mickey was going to have to validate Terry’s abuse to his face, and claim that it was warranted. It was so wrong on _every_ fucking level… every level but Terry’s.

This was the only way to manipulate Terry. Build up his confidence in Mickey again, make him think they had a bond, make him think Mickey was _grateful_ that Terry fixed him, that he was _indebted_ to him. Mickey had to go above and beyond, he had to be better than he was before, had to be something he _never_ fucking was in the first place: a monster.

Terry only had respect for his own kind.

After a few minutes, after Mandy had gathered herself, Ian quickly checked on Svetlana, who had moved into his kitchen, rooting around in his fridge. They hugged, and he made sure she was okay, but she told him to go to Mickey, that she was fine. Ian didn’t believe her.

Ian opened his bedroom door slow, quiet. Mickey was sitting on the edge of Ian’s bed, cigarette between his fingers as he stared at the floor. Ian closed the door behind him softly, sitting next to the brunette. He stayed quiet, just sitting there, just being there.

He had to figure out what Mickey needed, had to figure out how to help him right now. Ian learned his lesson years ago, from when he was a scared kid trying to break through, not knowing how. Sometimes Mickey didn’t want to be touched, didn’t want to be spoken to. Sometimes that’s all he wanted. So Ian waited, looking for his clues.

Eventually, Mickey shook his head, spoke quietly, “Sometimes I think back to the first plan me and Lana made and… fuck, that would be so much fucking easier.”

Ian didn’t think he knew that plan, but he could guess. He carefully reached out though, the back of his fingers brushing against Mickey’s elbow. Thankfully the brunette didn’t pull away, didn’t tense. Ian brushed his fingers against him again, before sliding his hand across Mickey’s shoulders, pulling him against his side. Mickey gave him no resistance, leaning into him.

“I’m sorry,” Ian whispered. It was the only thing he could think to say.

Mickey shook his head, and his voice came out heartbreakingly thick, “I _can’t_ thank him, Ian. Not for… not for that.”

Ian sat there with him for a moment, letting his mind wander around the plan, looking at every single angle. Mickey was right about that, he couldn’t thank him… not directly, at least. That was too much, that would fuck him all up on the inside for a long time. Terry didn’t deserve any kind of thanks, even if it was a lie.

“Make him _think_ you’re thanking him.”

Mickey looked at him as he reached over to the nightstand to stub out his cigarette, brows creased sharply, “What?”

“Make him _think_ you’re thanking him,” Ian repeated. “For fixing _all_ your problems… you’re living the American Dream according to him, Mick. Tell him about it. Tell him how fucking happy you are. You’ve got a beautiful wife with a kid on the way… fuck, you’re the _happiest_ you’ve ever been. He’ll take it from there, you know he will.”

Mickey just stared at him for a moment, blue eyes searching all over Ian’s face. He opened his mouth, then closed it right back up. Ian desperately wanted to know what he was going to say; he knew it had to be sweet, had to be raw, or else Mickey wouldn’t have pulled back. There was too much swimming around in Mickey’s head right now. It wasn’t the right time for him to feel safe for that kind of thing, otherwise he would.

But he did breathe an, “I love you,” before he kissed Ian.

It was soft and careful; tasted like smoke, but like Ian would ever care about that shit. Mickey stole Ian’s breath as he kissed him. Ian wanted to pull Mickey down on the bed, wanted to wrap himself around the brunette, cover them with the sheets and love on Mickey for the rest of the day. He wanted to tell Mickey that they should just go, just leave… fuck the feds, fuck all that shit, just go. They could go now and run and never look back, so he’d never have to face Terry, never have to tell him he was right.

He _wasn’t_ right. He was a monster.

Reality was, they couldn’t run right now. Mickey made an agreement with the goddamn FBI. Signed a paper and everything. Anyways, Ian knew Mickey well enough to know that Terry not getting locked up for the death of the Lang family would slowly kill him from the inside out. The guilt would crush him.

Ian pressed his forehead to Mickey’s, catching his breath. “I think you’re probably the bravest person I know,” he told him softly.

Mickey snorted an empty laugh, leaning away so he could look at Ian. “Nah, fucking _dumbest…_ pulling this shit.”

“No,” Ian shook his head, “You could never be dumb. Doesn’t look good on you.”

Mickey gave him a lopsided smile, glossing over the compliment like Ian predicted he would. “Probably gotta go back out there.”

Ian nodded, “Probably.”

Neither one of them moved though, not right away. Then Ian saw something in Mickey’s eyes, this little glimmer. Ian gave him a questioning look, because there was no way that Mickey was going to suggest they fuck around while Mandy and Svetlana —who was he kidding, they’ve fucked in alleys in the middle of the day before… multiple times.

(Thinking back, remembering how reckless they had been sometimes when they were too caught up in each other to think about the dangers of what they were doing, of _where_ they were doing it… Ian was a little horrified. Young and horny sure does make you fucking _stupid_.)

“You wanna go out tonight?”

Ian, stunned, merely blinked. That was not the question he was expecting. At all. “What?”

Mickey shrugged, “Grab a beer or something, I don’t fucking know. I just… maybe we could. I kinda want to get a fucking beer with my... you know, with you.”

Ian couldn’t believe he was _actually_ chancing it, but he found himself carefully prompting Mickey, “With your…”

The brunette sighed long and hard at him before he rolled his eyes, “With my boyfriend.”

Holy shit.

“You’ve… _never_ said that before,” Ian could barely catch his breath. He can’t believe he actually said it out loud. His hands itches to reach out and grab Mickey, but he clenched them tightly for now.

Mickey’s brows did _the thing_ when he looked away, put on the spot. “Don’t make a big fucking deal out of it.”

Ian nodded, keeping his face as stoic as he could, but in exactly five seconds he was going to kiss his boyfriend hard. “Okay. Let’s go out tonight then… get a beer.”

 

* * *

 

The day crawled by so slow. All Ian could focus on was this moment right here. Sitting in a bar across from Mickey. They’ve never done this before. Drank together, yeah. Even drank in a bar together when they were teenagers at the Alibi. But this? Legal drinking age, paying for their drinks, _together-together_. Like a date. They’ve _never_ done this.

Frankly, Ian was completely thrown off by the fact that this was Mickey’s idea in the first place. That, given everything that was discussed this morning, Mickey would even be remotely okay with going out into the world with Ian, where they could be seen by anyone. Where a genuinely innocent, offhand comment like “ _saw Mickey at the bar with that kid he used to run with_ ” to Terry could be their fucking undoing.

If Ian wasn’t so completely focused on how good this felt to be having a beer with Mickey, he’d been freaking the hell out.

It wasn’t even a shitty hole in the wall bar like the Alibi. Which is what Ian was had been expecting. But Mickey had wanted to go to _this_ one, where they had logos on their napkins, and a whole list of mixed drinks to choose from. They had a menu that had a couple options on it —basic bar food. _Food_ . In hindsight, Ian knew that Mickey chose this bar because no one from the club would _ever_ step foot in there. He picked it because they’d be safe.

Ian loved him. With everything he had, he loved him.

“If you’re gonna have that goofy ass look on your face the whole time, we’re leaving,” Mickey told him.

Ian rolled his eyes, leaving his goofy ass face just how it was. Mickey gave him a tiny smirk.

He looked _so_ good; left his cut at home, just in one of his usual t-shirts that he’d taken a pair of scissors to; didn’t dress up or anything special like that, neither of them did. But this morning Mickey had looked tired, and now he just… looked like him again. But from before, before everything went bad.

They didn’t sit at the actual bar. There were too many people crowded around, and Mickey said he needed to talk about shit at some point, so it would’ve been impossible to have a serious discussion over there anyways. So they sat down at one of the high-top tables, ordered a pitcher of beer and two glasses from a waitress that winked at Ian; Mickey snorted a laugh and made a comment about how she was in the entirely wrong _forest_ , let alone barking at the wrong tree.

Mickey was weird like that. _Deeply_ buried in the closet, but he’d deliberately make comments every once in a while that made people pause... and then when people _would_ pause or question him, he'd stare hard like he were daring them to say something stupid. One of those Mickey things that you’d have to understand Mickey in order to, well, _understand_.

It was simpler than people might think. It wasn’t about being in denial about being gay. It was never about that, even when he straight up denied it to someone’s face, even when he overcompensated, or fucked girls —or even when he lied to himself about it. It all came back to Terry in one way or another. And the club. But mostly Terry.

Terry was the root of it, the reason for Mickey’s hang-ups, the reason for Mickey’s tension, the reason that even when Terry got locked up, Mickey _still_ was covering. Mickey couldn’t be gay, because it could get him killed. And to Mickey —to most people, Ian thought— being alive and closeted was better than your own father shoving a gun in your mouth.

Mickey wasn’t afraid of being gay (and Mickey was _Gay_ ). He wasn’t. What he was afraid of was his father —the consequences by his father’s hand that he would face. And along with that fear came a _mountain_ of anxiety, and a mile long list of rules Mickey had made for himself.

Ian couldn’t wait until Mickey was free from that. He couldn’t wait to see him.

They talked some bullshit for a while, working through the pitcher of beer. Mickey had been in prison for a long time, and missed a lot of inane shit that happened in the outside world. He missed entire television shows, _so many_ movies, and dumbass celebrity gossip. He missed new motorcycle models, and when the old movie theater was torn down, and didn’t catch to some pop culture references, because he simply didn’t know.

Ian hadn’t really realized how _much_ he missed, how behind Mickey actually was compared to the rest of them. So he told him as much as he could. Vowed to gather as many important movies as he could, find a way to get a hold of the shows that Mickey needed to watch, find old tabloids, whatever he needed to do. Because the lower the beer got in the pitcher, the more Ian was seeing how much it _actually_ bothered Mickey. He was out of the loop. That wasn’t familiar ground for him. He _always_ knew shit, he knew shit _before_ most of them, actually.

When the pitcher was empty, and two of them were nice and loosened up, Mickey excused himself to the bathroom. Of course when Ian made a move to follow him, Mickey turned around and shook his head laughing that he actually needed to piss for real and would be back. Ian blushed hard and sat back down.

Ian took a moment to breathe though, took a moment to think through all of their current shit, and how it was only going to get messier before it got better. Ian really wasn’t looking forward to who Mickey had to be for the next several months. It was going to be hard to watch.

“Ay, I got another,” Mickey said when he got back to the table, setting the pitcher down with a thump. The gold liquid sloshed a little, and Ian reached out immediately to pick it up and pour himself another round. “What’s wrong?”

Ian shook his head, “Nothing. Just… a lot today.”

“Well, get ready because I got more shit to add to the fucking pile,” Mickey gave him an apologizing look, a helpless shrug.

Ian nodded. “Awesome.”

Mickey told him about what Terry did to Iggy, and Ian felt sick to his stomach, but he wished that he was more surprised than he was. Then he told him about his fight with Colin, which explained the bruising and scrapes. Sounded like Colin was an ever bigger dick than he was before… to Ian, it sounded he really took advantage of the time Mickey was in prison to be the new favorite son. It was a real shame, Colin used to be cool.

And then he told Ian something _really_ weird.

“My side bitch is a fucking fed.”

“Huh?” Ian had honestly thought he heard him wrong. He _hoped_ he heard him wrong. “Say that again?”

Mickey nodded, “She’s undercover FBI. Has been for a while.”

“The girl you’ve been fucking?” Ian’s brows were nearly risen completely off of his forehead at this point. “She’s a _fed_? Are you sure?”

Mickey nodded, downing the rest of his beer, filling up another glass. Ian eyed him quickly… maybe he shouldn’t be letting Mickey drink this much after his little impromptu bender (like he could control Mickey, let's be honest, and after this morning as far as Ian was concerned, Mickey could have a night). “Yeah. I’m sure. The feds I’ve been doing this shit for? They’re her fucking handlers.”

“Holy shit,” Ian said louder than he wanted to, running a hand over his hair. “Oh my god.”

“Yeah.”

Ian had no idea where to go with this. “What… I mean… what the fuck is she doing?”

“Watching Terry,” Mickey shrugged. “Keeping an eye on him, so they know where the fuck he is at all times… seeing if she can pick up something about what he did, I’m sure.”

“Why are they just watching him _now_?” Ian asked. It didn’t make sense.

Mickey shook his head with a humorless laugh. “The more I think about it, I don’t think she’s the first. They’ve probably been watching him ever since he took that family out with Petrov. You know how many girls come in and out of the club? We’re fucking slipping with that shit, any bitch that walks up with a nice rack we just...” Mickey helplessly threw his hands out.

_Straights_. This was not good. “What about the club?”

Mickey paused, then shook his head, “They want Terry more than they want the club.”

“Sure?”

“Yeah,” Mickey nodded. “That’s not it though.”

Ian sighed, reaching for the pitcher, filling his glass up with beer to the top. He was going to need it if there was more than Mickey fucking a fed. Holy hell, Mickey was fucking a fed. Ian downed half his beer, shaking his head. Mickey Milkovich was fucking a _fed_.

(Years and _years_ down the line they’d laugh about Mickey not only sleeping with a federal agent, but sleeping with a federal agent and not even _enjoying_ it. They’d laugh hard.)

“She knows about me,” Mickey continued. “About us.”

Ian downed the rest of his beer. That last chug pushed him into a looser state, made him have to blink his eyes a couple times and focus on the brunette across the table. “Excuse me?”

Instead of repeating himself, Mickey carried on. “She thinks that… I can relax. She said that I can _pretty much_ live my life… with you… until we leave.”

“How?” Ian shook his head. Why the fuck would that bitch tell Mickey that, why would she say something like that to give his hopes up? What kind of bullshit is that? This girl knew _nothing_ about how this shit had to work for Mickey.

“Because no one knows, Ian,” Mickey shrugged. “Think about it. My old man doesn’t leave the club anymore. For fucking _anything_. We got our main territory that we don’t really leave unless we have to, especially the old timers. Outside of our territory, the fuck we got to really worry about, besides regular people?”

Mickey was speaking, but the words he was using didn’t… match. What he was saying made sense, in a way… however it was hard to wrap his mind around. But there _was_ a weird little flash of clarity, of true untainted clarity of their situation. It was fucked up, no denying that. It had been a living nightmare. If Terry found out… he _would_ kill Mickey. But how the fuck was he going to find out, realistically? This was _Chicago_ . Chicago was huge, there were _millions_ of people here.

It just seemed too good to be true. As much as Ian hated it with every fiber of his being, Mickey _had_ to live a certain way… he always has. This is the way it’s always been: Mickey looking over his shoulder, Mickey careful of who he hangs around, Mickey being hyper aware of his movements and the way he speaks…

He didn’t want to ask. This might blow up in his face. “Are you… on something?”

Mickey pulled a face, “No, what the fuck?”

“You don’t really take chances like this Mick,” Ian said. “It’s not like you.”

It felt weird. Almost felt wrong. Ian had been on edge about this specific thing for the past ten fucking years (longer, actually). And now Mickey was saying he could _chill_ ? Mickey… who was forced so deeply in the closet, so strict about his rules, that he would jerk away from _innocent_ touches in semi-public places? It didn’t track.

And Ian didn’t want to _discourage_ Mickey in any way, he really didn’t. He didn’t want to scare Mickey deeper into that closet.

But he also wanted him _alive_.

“Maybe I’m fucking tired,” Mickey said sharply. “I’m _tired_ , Ian…” he shook his head, looking away for a moment. “He takes everything from _everyone_. He’s a fucking parasite. He took that girl away from Iggy, they made her get rid of the baby… he thinks he fucking owns us. And no one fucking _owns_ me, okay? No one. So, I’m tired of living like he does.”

Ian didn’t know what to say right away, so they sat there across from each other, allowing the background noise of the bar fill up the space between them. The only thing Ian ever wanted was a real relationship with Mickey. That’s all he _ever_ fucking wanted. Dates. Holding hands. Acknowledging the relationship for what it was. A future.

Carefully, he took a chance. He slid his hand to rest in the middle of the table. He waited.

It wasn’t a _test_ , but maybe it was. He just needed to see it with his own eyes. Not a challenge, but a question.

It took a couple minutes, but Mickey met his hand with his own. Ian watched with his breath caught in his throat, with his stomach flipping over and over. He watched as Mickey’s FUCK hand covered his own, his thumb slowly rubbed a single line over Ian’s skin. Ian swore his heart was going a million miles an hour; he swallowed hard, looking at Mickey’s face.

To anybody else, this was dumb middle school shit, to get all fluttery over a hand hold in public. But that was everyone else. This was them.

Guess what happened?

Nothing.

The world didn’t end. The Iron Eagles didn’t raid the bar as soon as Mickey touched him, shooting up the place, spouting slurs. Terry didn’t pop up from behind a group of people, charging towards his queer son. No one even _looked_ at them. They blended in with everyone else, like they were invisible. And it felt… _amazing_.

It seemed so obvious too, and Ian felt this weird guilt and shame about it. Obviously no one was going to pay them any mind —he always _knew_ that would happen! Ian’s been living as a pretty fucking openly gay man in Chicago for… a while. He knows the drill.

It was different with Mickey, though, it _felt_ different. Maybe because Ian gave a fuck; he cared so much, sometimes too much, that he learned to be as careful and paranoid as Mickey when they were together. And it wasn’t like they were ever proven wrong before. Quite the opposite, Terry had _more_ than proved Mickey right.

He’d personified every nightmare Mickey had ever had, had given physical credit to every time Mickey said he would be killed or beaten within an inch of his life. Mickey had _never_ been wrong to be paranoid. But the paranoia just… unfortunately ruled him.

But then? Now? Mickey Milkovich had reached out for him. He had touched him. Like this. Innocent but intimate. In a decently packed bar. He truly was the bravest person that Ian ever knew.

Ian caught his bottom lip between his teeth, looking at Mickey. “Okay,” he said softly.

Mickey gave him one of his small non-smile smiles, his thumb brushing over Ian’s skin again. Maybe they could… just a little. _Slowly_ , until they could really live for real, away from all this shit, away from every bad thing that ever happened to them. When they could breathe.

Mickey took his hand away, but it was only because he lit up a cigarette. Ian felt warm all over, taking his hand back too, crossing his arms on the table in front of him. He liked watching the brunette light up; he was sexy.

“You’re doing it again,” Mickey mumbled around his cigarette. “Stop.”

Ian grinned, “What?”

“Goofy ass face,” Mickey told him with a smirk.

He wanted to hold Mickey so bad. He wanted to flip the table out of the way and yank Mickey towards him and kiss him breathless. Ian never wanted to try and stand in Mickey’s way of being more comfortable with himself —this peek at a new side of Mickey was exhilarating and nerve wracking, making his insides flutter around.

Mickey held his hand in the middle of a bar. Mickey had finally had enough of Terry getting in the way of him being able to live and breathe on his own.

God, it was fucking sexy.

“You wanna go after this is done?” Ian asked, nodding to the pitcher of beer.

Mickey smirked, “Why?”

Fucker. Ian felt his face go warm as he laughed, “I...” he trailed off, biting his lip.

There was only really one person that could make Ian get all awkward and shy about this shit, and that person was the asshole grinning at him from across the table. Both of them had a _mouth_ on them, and he could definitely match Mickey word for word, could even make the brunette blush five shades of pink. But Mickey was brazen, in _and out_ of the metaphorical bedroom. Always kept Ian on his toes like that.

Ian almost hissed at Mickey to get back on his stool when the brunette slid off, still giving him that grin. There was so much heat in his eyes, Ian was dying, trying to cover it up with an _I fucking hate you_ smile, but that smile just morphed into a real, slightly embarrassed one. He even opened his mouth to tell the fucker to keep on his side of the table, because he _knew_ he was up to some bullshit… but Mickey does what he wants.

If Mickey wanted to rile Ian up in the middle of this bar, he’s _was going_ to do just that, and there was fuck-all Ian could do to hinder that from happening. Didn’t want to hinder it, honestly, not really. Mickey pulling this, with that look in his eye, had Ian _incredibly_ hot.

“Mick,” Ian warned softly through a careful grin. His body screamed at him to _shut the fuck up and enjoy this while you can_.

He wasn’t listening. He walked around the table to Ian, reaching out for his knee, gently pushing it out of his way so he could stand between Ian’s legs. Heat still in those blue eyes, Mickey slid his hand up Ian’s thigh —the one that was under the table, away from prying eyes.

“Look good in that shirt,” Mickey told him. His fingers pressed tighter against Ian’s thigh, dragging higher. “Nice jeans.”

Ian’s mouth watered. He hoped to fuck he wasn’t dreaming, he didn’t want to wake up _ever_ if he was. “Thanks,” he cleared his throat.

Then Mickey was quiet for a moment, just looking at him. When Mickey stared, he did so right down to your cells. At least, with Ian he did. It was… intense. Ian’s entire body wanted to slide off that stool and press against the brunette right in the middle of the bar. His body tightened from the inside out, threatening to embarrass him.

“I’m gonna go settle up the tab,” Mickey said. “You go wait for me at your car. Then we’re gonna go back to your place and fuck for a while, sound good?”

“Yes,” Ian breathed. _Yes yes yes yes yes_.

Then Mickey tilted his chin up, silently telling Ian to come closer. He did, eyes scanning the bar quickly. Still invisible.

Ian’s breath caught in his throat when Mickey’s hand was suddenly grabbing his belt, tugging on it once. “I wanna suck your dick before we go though, so wait in the backseat,” Mickey said.

Ian almost knocked Mickey over when he got off of his barstool.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this fic is heavy af. Writing it is heavy af tbh. So thanks for sticking around lol  
> I will say tho that despite the heaviness, this chapter and next are possibly my very favorites so far.  
> Feedback is always welcome and appreciated :)
> 
> The next chapter is going to focus on some key points from this chapter -but Mickey's side.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a refresh/reminder: this chapter is obv on Mickey's POV, but includes some parts from last chapter.

Mickey only said two words, and already felt like he ran a fucking marathon.

He wasn’t close with Mandy, not like Ian. This wasn’t natural for him, to open up to her. He’s kept himself tucked away for so long that this almost felt wrong. Kind of felt like it was going to blow up in his face at any second, because his sister was staring at him with eyes that matched his own damn near perfectly. He couldn’t look, so he didn’t.

Mickey leaned back against her couch, beer bottle resting on his knee. He kept his eyes on the brown bottle, watching the liquid inside. He let the silence grow longer, didn’t know how to fill it back up again after telling Mandy the one thing he’s been adamant about keeping from her since he figured it out.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Mandy asked him. “Why didn’t I see this…”

Mickey shrugged, “Been hiding it since I was twelve, Mands.” Still couldn’t look at her. “Got real good at it.”

She moved to sit next to him, and Mickey finally looked. Mandy didn’t smile at him all soft like that normally. But she was now. He sniffed, looking back down at his beer bottle.

“I’m guessing Ian knows,” she said.

Mickey breathed a hollow laugh, because this shit was surreal and the fact that he and Ian actually pulled it off for this long without Mandy knowing was fucking mind-boggling. 

He told her about that day. About six and a half years ago… creeping up on seven years. He told her about how he was with Ian. About Terry and Petrov. Him and Svetlana. He told her fucking… everything. It came out broken and spread out because he was talking about it, really fucking talking about it, for the first time since… well, ever.

When he finished that part, he looked over at his sister again. Her hand was covering her mouth, tears in her eyes. He hated it, hated when people looked at him all sad and sorry and like he was a fucking puppy at the bottom of a well. So he looked back down at his bottle again, clenching his jaw tight so he wouldn’t snap at Mandy. To be fair, it was a fucking lot to take in and digest.

Mandy obviously always knew Terry was a monster, but Mickey supposed it was human nature to hope that everyone had some sort of line that they wouldn’t cross. Terry didn’t have a line. Terry gladly got down on his hands and knees and peeled that line off with with his teeth a long time ago, before any of his kids were born. Maybe he came out of the womb like that. Wouldn’t surprise Mickey.

“We need your help, Mandy,” Mickey forced out. He needed to move away from this; she kept looking at him. Puppy in a well.

Mandy scooted closer, just a little. Her knee bumped into his hip as she drew her legs up, curling up and paying attention. Milkovich blue eyes focused, ready. “With what?”

Mickey quirked a brow upwards, shaking his head, “I need to get a confession out of dad.”

She took a deep breath, “How big of a confession?”

A rush of air puffed out of Mickey’s nose as he took a swig of his beer; what a loaded question. Mid swig, he decided to finish it off, then leaned forward to set the empty bottle on Mandy’s coffee table. Mandy’s little apartment was sparse, but in a way that was on purpose. It was clean. The walls were soft white, the air was free of stale cigarette smoke. It was everything opposite of what they were brought up in. It was comfortable.

“The kind that’s gonna get his ass lit up,” Mickey answered. 

Those words would have set heavy in his throat before, years before. 

There’s no weight anymore. 

 

* * *

 

He didn’t mean to slam Ian’s bedroom door, but it happened. Mickey seethed, fucking  _ seethed _ as he paced. He looked around Ian’s room, clenching his fists tight. Couldn’t break Ian’s shit. Hell no. Kind of wished he were in his own room, with his own shit he could break and be mad at himself for later. He was worked up, hot under the collar, heart beating angily against his chest. Hasn’t been this worked up in a long time.

“Fuck,” he whispered over and over. Tight and clipped. Quiet. He wanted to scream.

_ You have to thank him. _

He’d rather drive his bike headfirst into a fucking Mac truck.

He dug his hands into his hair, pulling, breathing hard. In through his nose, out through his mouth. Rough and loud like a bull. In and out. Learned that shit in prison, learned how to breathe when he wanted to thrash, figured it out on his own when shit got too fucked up. He couldn’t freak out here. He couldn’t break Ian’s shit. He couldn’t, it wouldn’t be fucking fair. He breathed.

He wanted to be sick. The answer was right there in front of them, just like Ian said it was. Mandy knew what to do, she  _ always _ fucking knew how to get around and manipulate Terry, had to to survive in that hellhole of a house. Terry barely even acknowledged her most of the time, except when Mandy fucked up, then he raged hard at her. She spent her entire fucking childhood watching, learning, taking note of the men in her family. That’s why she knew. 

He sat clumsily on Ian’s bed. Head in his hands, hands sliding over his face. He breathed hard into his palms. In and out. His body was hot and staticy all over, and not in the good way. Like electric crackling down his nerves, wrapping around his fingers, shoving down his throat. 

She was right. But he couldn’t thank him. He’d rather fucking die.

He’d rather Terry did. Died. Could’ve. That first plan. All it would take is some extra heavy oxy’s to get him down for the count, get him pliable enough to…

No. He made a deal. Signed a paper. Honestly, he didn’t want to run and be running from both the feds and the club. He could disappear forever from the club, they’d never find them, there wasn’t even a chance they would, Mickey made sure of that. But the feds? Pfft. Different ballgame. They’d  _ never _ be free.

Mickey hissed a curse, grabbing for his pack of cigarettes. He lit up, sucked down hard, filling his lungs with poison. He supposed he could grab one of Ian’s pillows and scream holy hell into it, scream until his lungs gave out. That’s what he wanted to do.

Ian came in, and Mickey couldn’t look at him right away. He stared down hard at the floor, keeping his deep breaths soft, silent. Didn’t want Ian to know about that shit. About the hard breathing, about the wanting to thrash and break and let out this violent monster that’s been growing and clawing under his ribs for twenty-six fucking years. Hasn’t felt this in… a while. How long… two, three years? Didn’t want to think about the last time. Couldn’t go there.

He wished desperately that he never fucking found out about the Lang family. He wished he could’ve just minded his own business, gone through with the first plan and left forever.

Ian. Quiet and still next to him. Mickey was so grateful for that, so grateful that it eased his shoulders some, letting them slip just a touch. Just enough. Ian. His body went warm again, under the rage and frustration that still scratched under his skin. But Ian. Ian.  _ Ian _ .

Needing to say something, Mickey told him softly, “Sometimes I think back to the first plan me and Lana made and… fuck, that would be so much fucking easier.” It was the only thing that was safe to leave his lips at that exact moment.

A soft brush of fingers against Mickey’s elbows. His eyes slipped closed for a moment. Ian. Ian. A hand carefully sliding across his shoulders, pulling soft. Ian. Ian.  _ Ian _ . Mickey went to him, needing him, leaning against him. Ian.

Ian whispered, “I’m sorry.”

Then all of a sudden, it felt like his throat was going to close up. His eyes stung, and Mickey hasn’t felt this or done this shit in so long. God, he felt weak. Felt soft and small. Hated this shit. Fucking hated it with everything he had, probably hated it more than he hated his own father.

“I  _ can’t _ thank him, Ian. Not for… not for that.” It was all he could manage, and even that came out all fucked up and weak. Humiliating. Fucking  _ hated _ this.

He breathed quiet while Ian just sat with him, holding him. He took a another hard pull from his cigarette, blowing it out hard through his nose to cover up trying to calm down. Second by second ticked by, little by little. Still all fucked up but Ian.  _ Ian _ .

“Make him  _ think _ you’re thanking him,” Ian said quietly all of a sudden.

Mickey looked at him as he reached over to the nightstand to stub out his cigarette, thrown off for a moment. “What?”

“Make him  _ think _ you’re thanking him,” Ian repeated. His face was all open and honest, and Mickey wanted to kiss him all over, wanted to kiss and fuck until it all went away. Wanted Ian to take him over, needed it. 

“For fixing  _ all _ your problems… you’re living the American Dream according to him, Mick. Tell him about it. Tell him how fucking happy you are. You’ve got a beautiful wife with a kid on the way, fuck, you’re the  _ happiest _ you’ve ever been. He’ll take it from there, you know he will.”

Ian was everything Mickey ever fucking wanted,  _ ever _ . 

He opened his mouth to say that. To tell him, because he should know, he needed to know. He would. Just… he couldn’t right this second, his body was a storm, his body thundered on the inside beneath the surface. 

_ Ian’s been acting weird, and Mickey fucking hates it. He can’t say it though. What the fuck is he supposed to do, tell Ian that he needs to sit next to him again, needs to touch him again? No. Can’t. Not even a little. But he wants to. He misses Ian, even though he sees him every fucking day.  _

_ He misses Ian touching him. Dumb, innocent friend touches. Mickey doesn’t get those anymore. Not a one. Not a pat on the shoulder, not a joking punch in the chest, not an arm around the neck as Ian’s all sloppy drunk and laughing. He wonders if that sick fuck at the store Ian works at is the reason.  _

_ Or maybe Mickey did something that pissed Ian off, but he can’t think of anything. Ian would speak up, he’s not afraid to tell Mickey off. That does things to Mickey that he doesn’t want to talk about, doesn’t want to acknowledge. Ian gets in his face, and Mickey’s whole world shuts down for a second, his body revving up in ways that he wished he could stop. Ian’s his best friend. He can’t ruin that shit. Maybe he already did, and that’s why Ian’s avoiding him. _

_ Mickey’s mouth longs to open and say it. Touch me. Please fucking touch me, please I’m fucking dying. It’s dramatic. Twink bitch behavior. He fucking hates himself for it. Hates he needs that so much, his body craves it, aches for it. Please touch me, please fucking touch me. Punch me, anything…  _

_ Mickey’s fifteen years old and he has accepted the fact that he’s going to die empty, with a wife and couple kids. He’s accepted the fact that this is it. It’s all he knows; the rest of his life is quick hard fucks behind dumpsters, or terrible handjobs in dirty bathroom stalls. What the fuck other option would there be for him? A boyfriend? That shit was for Ian, he had those options, he could get the fuck out of here one day and be as gay as he wanted.  _

_ He supposed at least there was Ryan. Ian didn’t know Ryan. No one knew him. Mickey kept it that way. He had to. _

_ Ian touches Svetlana, and Mickey kind of hates her for it. Not her fault, both of them are gay as the day is long. But Ian touches her, even reaches for her hand sometimes when they’re high and laughing too hard at something that’s not even that funny. Ian has a dumbass laugh, but it makes Mickey smile after he makes it happen. _

_ Ian touches Mandy. They hug all the fucking time. Mandy hangs on him and pushes her face against his cheek, and Ian lets her. Mickey hates that too.  _

_ Ian even touches Sully. Sully! Grabs his hand in a quick shake, brings him in, thumps him hard on the back. More and more it seems like Ian will touch anyone but Mickey. Like Mickey is made of poison, like his skin is acid. And he has to sit there and take it, sit there and watch while he’s hurting so bad inside, rotting more and more. He’s starving. _

_ Mickey’s been pissing Ian off lately, on purpose. Trying to get Ian to touch him, even if it’s a push, even if they fight. He just… he can’t fucking ask! He can’t. He’s not some fucking twink bitch, he doesn’t beg to be touched. He’s going to be a fucking Iron Eagle, he can’t do that shit. _

_ He could die. He could. His dad… yeah. He could die. _

_ Ian gives Mickey an opening again when they’re smoking weed in the Gallagher’s broken down van with Svetlana, he gives him an opportunity. He’s talking about Justin motherfucking Timberlake again. If Mickey has to hear about that cocksucker one more time, he’s going to drive his head through a wall. Ian likes guys like that, but it’s honestly hard to tell what the fuck Ian likes because the kid will bang dudes old enough to be his dad, and Mickey doesn’t understand that nasty shit at all. Ian could do better.  _

_ It makes him so mad. He’s always so fucking mad, and now Ian’s acting weird and not touching him anymore. Mickey’s hot all over, doesn’t want to hear about Roger fucking Spikey’s huge dick, or Justin Timberlake, or this other kid Mickey couldn’t bother to remember, but Ian talked about him too. He doesn’t want to hear about Ian’s sex life or how he’s got a boner for whoever at the moment. Fuck. Fuck! _

_ “Stop with that shit, man,” Mickey bit out at Ian. _

_ Ian just looks at him hard. Just looks at him. Fucking stop, his eyes say. Mickey clenches his jaw tight. A word is on the tip of his tongue that he would never say to Ian, a word that if he heard someone else say to Ian he would lay them the fuck out on site.  _

_ The word lingers on the tip of his tongue. It would get Ian to touch him. It would. Mickey swallows it down. He wants Ian to touch him, but he doesn’t want to say that to him. Could never say that to Ian. It hurts him, would hurt him even more coming from Mickey. The touch wouldn’t be worth it, and the word would feel like dust in his mouth after. _

_ “Mickey,” Svetlana rolls her eyes. “Would you fucking stop.” _

_ Mickey keeps his jaw tight. Stares hard at her, then back to Ian. Touch me. Please. Fucking touch me. Ian stares right back at him, brows creased.  _

_ “Are you done?” Ian asks him. Not happy. He’s fucking pissed. He’s hurt. Ian can’t hide that shit, his face isn’t iron like Mickey’s. _

_ “Are you?” Mickey shoots back at him. He could push him there. He could. Logic says stop being an asshole; logic can suck his dick right now. _

_ “Fuck you, Mickey,” Ian snarls. Mickey’s body flutters a little, dick twitching in his pants. Fuck.   _

_ Mickey snarls the same thing back at Ian, flicking the lit joint at him before he climbs out of the van, slamming the door behind him. Fuck. Fuck! _

_ He didn’t hear him coming, but Ian’s in his face all of a sudden. He’s wearing his stupid fucking camo pants and his stupid fucking army green shirt, because Ian is trying to gear up for his own version of Platoon as soon as he turns eighteen. Which scares the fuck out of Mickey, the thought of never seeing Ian again… or being separated for a long fucking time… but he shuts his mouth about it. Ian can do whatever the hell he wants to do. _

_ Ian’s pissed off and flushed; he pushes Mickey hard, and Mickey has to do everything in his power not to grab him and reverse this shit, he has to stop himself from reaching out to pull Ian against him tight, feel him pressed close, feel the weight of him.  _

_ There’s this deep need Mickey’s never had before until recently. This need for something he never had. It’s terrifying. He’s already getting fucked in the ass, and now his dick has to add on shit like… whatever the fuck this was. He’s not a bitch. He’s not. But what he wants… the weight, the pressure, closed in, swallowed up and covered. Wants that warmth, wants to know where he is.  _

_ He just wants Ian to fucking touch him. Even if he can’t have what he wants, and he knows he can’t. It’s either dumb friend touches, fighting, or nothing at all. Mickey doesn’t have other options. He just doesn’t.  _

_ “If you wanna say something, fucking say it!” Ian’s yelling. Pushing again.  _

_ Mickey’s body jerks back with both pushes. He takes it. He savors it. Wants more. Touch me. Fucking touch me, please. Ian’s staring at him hard, arms hanging at his sides. Not pushing. Not touching. Waiting. _

_ Mickey grits his teeth. He shakes his head, “I just don’t want to hear about that shit all the time!” He pushes Ian’s shoulder, edging him on. It’s stupid. He knows. But there’s nothing else he can do. _

_ “Come the fuck on!” Svetlana is bitching in the background.  _

_ Mickey flips her off, tells her to shut the fuck up.  _

_ That worked. Ian pushed him again, “The fuck is your problem?!” _

_ It’s a short scrap. Mickey keeps his hand open when he swings at Ian, slapping him hard in the face. Mickey doesn’t slap, it’s kind of a bitch move, but hitting Ian with a closed fist isn’t on the table; he’s trying to rile the redhead up, not beat on him. Then there’s shoving and cursing; Mickey gets hit in the mouth when he grabbed at Ian’s shirt; he hears fabric tear. Mickey clings to every single second until he’s being shoved back and Svetlana’s screeching at them to stop, getting in the middle. Mickey tastes blood. He spits hard at the ground, watching Ian back up too, glaring hard.  _

_ Ian flips him off, tells him to go fuck himself. Calls him a prick. Not scared. Never scared. There’s a tear where the sleeve of his t-shirt is stitched; the left side of his face red. _

_ “Back off,” Svetlana tells him, staying in the middle. She’s keeping a steady hand planted in the middle of Ian’s chest, keeping him there. “Just go, Mickey. Just leave.” _

_ Ian spits on the ground too, wipes his mouth but doesn’t move. “Seriously, what the fuck is your problem?” _

_ Mickey explodes, uncontrolled. Like a fucking atom bomb. He’s in Ian’s face, right in his fucking face ignoring Svetlana getting a little smushed between them and yelling about it. He tells Ian exactly what his fucking problem is as Svetlana is giving his shoulders a hard shove, making him stumble back as he yells, “You! You’re my fucking problem!” _

_ Dead silent. Sudden, like Mickey’s words were bullets that flew straight into Ian’s gut. _

_ For a second, Ian’s face falls. Just a second. Hurt. It flashes across his best friend’s face, and Mickey’s violently dropped back down to earth. No. Fuck. He didn’t… that’s not what he meant.  _

_ Ian steps back, putting more space between them than before, shaking his head. He doesn’t touch him. Even angry and sad and disappointed, Ian is beautiful. Mickey doesn’t use that word ever, especially for guys. Beautiful. But Ian is. He always is. _

_ “Are you for real?” Ian asked, all sad and shit and Mickey wants to scream. _

_ The words are stuck in his throat. No. He’s not for real. Nothing about him is fucking real.  _

_ “I just…” Mickey bites out, shaking his head. He can’t. He wants to be like Ian, he does. He can’t. He wants to be like Ian, but he wants to be alive also. And he can’t have both. He’ll never have both. “S’all the fucking time, man. Fucking constant.” _

_ Svetlana shakes her head at him, rolls her eyes in disgust. Mickey doesn’t blame her. Because that was a straight up lie, and the three of them knew it.  _

_ Ian huffs an empty laugh, his hands rubbing over his face. He murmurs something to himself, and when his hands slide down, he’s looking over with glassy green eyes. Mickey wants to die. _

_ “You make this so fucking hard sometimes,” Ian shakes his head. Mickey sees the other words Ian wants to say floating all around him. They’re blurry and broken, but there’s more that Ian won’t fucking say. Mickey wishes he would. He wants to know what the other words are. He’s desperate for it. _

_ Ian won’t touch him. And now Ian won’t talk to him. _

_ Mickey holds back. Bites his tongue, literally has to bite his tongue to keep his words inside. His throat is clawing, eyes threatening to sting, threatening to humiliate him in front of Ian. He pushes it down, leaving the Gallagher’s yard. He can’t. _

He gave Ian everything he could in that moment, everything his body would permit. “I love you,” he breathed, leaning into him, kissing him. Ian kissed him back, touching him soft. They kissed slow. Loving. Safe. 

He wanted this more than anything. Ian. Wanted Ian, wanted to be free with him. With his boyfriend. His fucking  _ boyfriend _ . Ian.  _ Ian _ .

God, he just wanted to live. 

 

* * *

 

Mandy had left Ian’s apartment after they talked some more. Mickey wasn’t mad at her, didn’t see any reason to be. Wasn’t her fault she was right about how to win Terry over. But they needed space to sort this shit out in their head, and that was an unspoken agreement they exchanged after Mickey came out of Ian’s room, and Mandy gave him an uncharacteristically teary —and unnecessary— apology. 

Mickey reached for her. She went to him instantly, grabbing him tight before letting go and leaving. Mandy was a badass. Mickey was going to miss her a lot.

Svetlana was curled up on Ian’s couch, silent as ever. Ian was busy making her something to eat (she’d been snacking up a storm lately with this fucking baby) and Mickey took the opportunity to attempt to check in with her. They were running away together, after all. They had to figure this shit out, had to figure out how to talk without pissing each other off. She tries, at least. Maybe he could too.

He sits on Ian’s coffee table, looking at her. She looked tired. It’s so easy to forget that she went through the same fucking thing Mickey did, she just didn’t have a scar on her forehead to show it. But it hit him like a truck. Took almost seven years, but it hit him.

Mickey didn’t know what to say. She stared right back at him. Soft eyes. Waiting. He opened his mouth, closed it back up. He couldn’t find the words, he… fuck. He swallowed hard, trying again.

“You okay?” He started with.

She shrugged, taking a deep breath, letting it out slow. “Sometimes.”

He nodded, understanding. They’ve never talked about this. He’s not sure there’s anything to talk about anymore, wasn’t sure if there was any point in it. “I wasn’t good to you… after,” he began. 

He’d been angry, regressing to that pissed off vicious fifteen year old. Snapping and growling like a rabid stray at her, wanting to aim it at his father but it got diverted because he couldn’t come at Terry like that, especially back then.

“I wasn’t either,” she pointed out, brow raised. True. She gave it as much as she got it. Mickey knew better than to talk to her like she was a delicate flower, internally scolding himself for it. This was Svetlana.  _ Lana _ . 

Fuck, not only was she a Milkovich now, and a pretty fucking feared ol’ lady, but she was Petrov born. There was iron in her veins just like Mandy. People forgot. People always forgot.  _ Mickey _ always forgot.

“We’re okay, Mickey,” she said softer. “We’ve always been okay. Right?”

He nodded, exhaled. It wasn’t always pretty, but they were always okay. “Yeah.”

She stuck her hand out, leaving it hanging there in the air. Mickey looked at her hand. They don’t really… they don’t touch a lot, not unless they have to. It hasn’t been the same. But he pushed past it, because fuck Terry for breaking them in the first place. He swallowed, reaching out for her, meeting her halfway, grabbing her hand. It was a short, reassuring squeeze, then it was over.

Ian brought over a thick ass ham sandwich and a big bag of Doritos for her, and it was like all the shit just melted away, all the tension just… floated off. Just like that. 

That was Ian. He did that for them without even fucking  _ trying _ . All it took was one tall, freckled redhead that both Mickey and Svetlana loved fiercely, both differently and the same. Ian was the glue for them like that.

Mickey, suddenly starving, ignored Svetlana’s annoyed protest when he reached for her sandwich, taking a big bite before plopping it back on her plate.

One of Ian’s goofy ass laughs bubbled up; he’s been all moon-eyed ever since Mickey said  _ boyfriend _ . Mickey smirked, reaching for him, kissing him quick before he moved out of the way of Svetlana’s swatting hands. He loved that stupid fucking laugh.

For that brief moment, it was like before. Before Terry took it all away. It felt good. Mickey had four years of being honest with Ian —and with Svetlana. Four years, where in the spaces they could be tucked away from the rest of the world, he was able to fucking relax, where he was able to reach for Ian without thinking about it.

He wanted that again. So bad.

 

* * *

 

Mickey grew up in shitty dive bars, so this regular everyday people bar was a little much to step into at first, but the longer they’d been there the more he realized that… no one fucking cares. He felt like he was brand new to the world, and he didn’t like it, but at the same time it was a welcome relief.

The last thing Mickey would ever call himself was  _ sheltered _ . He’d been exposed to literally fucking everything. Has seen more shit, been through more shit than anyone his age probably should. He supposes.  _ That’s _ where it tripped him up. It smacked him in the face hard, sitting at the table across from Ian. 

His life  _ had _ been sheltered. Very much so. Sheltered away from normal shit. Sheltered away from people who left him the fuck alone. Sheltered away from people who apparently could not give two single fucks that he was sitting with another guy, who was looking at him that way Ian does.

His shelter had been constructed out of violence and hate. And yeah the world fucking sucked, but… maybe…  _ maybe _ Hannah was right. It seemed possible right then and there. It did. It felt possible. Ian had questioned it, of course. And why wouldn’t he? Ian had been sheltered too, not like Mickey, but still sheltered. They didn’t know any better. They just… they didn’t know.

He stared at Ian’s hand sliding to rest in the middle of the table. Tongue catching in the corner of his mouth, heart in his throat. Tension rolled through his body, up and down, instinctual alarm bells ringing in the background that he blocked out as best he could. Instincts told him to tell Ian to take his hand back. Instinct told him to get the hell out of there because if he reaches out too, something fucking terrible was going to happen.

He blocked it out, scanning the bar quickly but carefully. Blocked out the alarm bells because still, fucking  _ still… _ no one fucking cared.

_ You can pretty much live your life, outside of this building, for the next several months. You have to still keep an eye out, and don’t be stupid, but… live.  _

Terry ruined everything. Took everything. Terry made Mickey believe that the holy hell would rain down on him if he ever stepped out of line. Made Mickey believe he was fucking omnipotent. He wasn’t. He was just a piece of shit, who did piece of shit things. A rabid dog that needed to be put down.

He reached for Ian. Slow, but he reached. Ian kept saying Mickey’s skin was soft, but his was softer. Mickey kept staring at his hand on top of Ian’s, watching how his thumb trailed over freckled skin. Right there in the middle of a bar. People their age all around. And no one even so much as blinked at them sideways.

Mickey felt cheated. Absolutely cheated.

A lump in his chest, in his throat because all this shit was bubbling to the surface all at once. He could’ve… he could’ve  _ had _ this a long time ago. But he didn’t know. He didn’t fucking  _ know _ , and if Terry’s fate hadn’t have already been sealed, that sure as fuck did it. 

Because he knew now. He saw it. 

 

* * *

 

He still had Ian’s taste on his tongue. Scalp a little tender from long fingers pulling. 

Ian covers him, settling up between Mickey’s legs, mouth hot and panting against his as they kiss desperate. Skin on skin. Mickey moans, feeling Ian’s hand press against him, sliding up his ribs, catching his upper arm, pulling him tight. That pressure. That weight. Ian fucks his mouth slow with his tongue, and Mickey wraps his legs around the redhead’s waist, pulling him down against him. 

Mickey gently pushes at Ian’s chest, making him back up just enough so he can reach down and take Ian into his hand. Ian shudders, head dropping to Mickey’s shoulder. Mickey brushes his lips against Ian’s ear, stroking at him slow.

“Like that?” Mickey kept quiet when he asked, not wanting to shatter the moment. “Shootin’ down my throat not enough, gotta fill me up huh?”

Heavily, Ian pressed his forehead against Mickey’s shoulder more, letting out a slow desperate moan. He shook, curling himself around Mickey tighter, hips rocking into his grip. Mickey smirked, feeling a little smug. Loved doing that to him. 

“Fuck,” Ian’s ragged curse was muffled. He kissed and tongued at Mickey’s skin.

Mickey slowed down though, easing, pressing the side of his face against Ian’s, feeling him. He felt so good. Warmed Mickey all up, patched over the rot and filth, made him feel… he just made him  _ feel _ . Better yet, he  _ let _ him feel.

He closed his eyes, sinking into the moment, his hand wrapped around Ian stilling as he basked. Ian stilled too. Quiet. Soft. 

He didn’t know how to ask. He didn’t have to, though.

Mickey shut his eyes real tight when long arms slid under him, curling around him, holding him. Ian sunk against Mickey; he could barely breathe, but it wasn’t from the pressure. He slid his hand out from between them, holding Ian right back. Breathed in deep, hand buried in Ian’s soft hair. Ian’s back was strong under his hand, Mickey moved his fingers along his spine, making him shiver. He pulls his legs up, needing Ian, wrapping around the redhead’s hips, needing to feel him all over.

His brows creased as he clung to the redhead. They just needed a moment. Just this moment, then they’d get back on track. Mickey held Ian so tight; Ian held him back just as tight. 

That’s when Mickey finally told him. “You’re everything I ever wanted,” he whispered soft. 

Ian moves to look at Mickey, and his eyes are glassy. Presses their foreheads together, lets out a slow breath against Mickey’s mouth. Kisses him. “Damnit, Mick,” Ian whispered back. Sniffs quietly. Smiles soft against Mickey’s lips before he kisses him again.

It’s a lot. Mickey’s feeling a lot, all of it good, but it’s still a  _ lot _ . He needs to spread it out, needs to ease it, before it swallows him whole. Drowns him. Mickey tells Ian quietly, “I need you.”

Ian understands, like he always does. Ian knows him. Every part. He shifts back on track, uncurling from around Mickey, then reaching for the bedside table drawer. It’s a lazy kiss when Ian pushes his mouth against Mickey’s. Lazy but good. They groan into each other, Mickey skillfully using one hand to get lube into his palm after Ian handed it to him. Ian bites softly at Mickey’s lips —they’d be tender and puffy later. Ian loved that. Mickey loved feeling that, if he were being honest.

Mickey slicks Ian up, then himself. Grabs Ian one more time and lines him up, ready to go. He’s so fucking relaxed, so caught up, so ready. He just needs Ian inside him, stretching and filling, reminding him. It’s okay. They’re okay. 

“Fuck…” Mickey breathed. His eyes rolled and closed, head tilting and pushing back against the pillow, throat vulnerable to the entire world. He’s hoarse and gasping for it, for the stretch, the burn. It’s so good. “Fuck yeah, fuck, fuck…”

Ian pushed slow inside him, dropping his lips to Mickey’s neck. Lips and tongue everywhere, in every single one of Mickey’s best spots. Ian seeks them out like a missle, tending to them one by one. He knows. He knows which ones need certain things. Some areas need kisses, some need bites and licks, some just breath. Mickey’s neck is Ian’s playground now, they found out.

He whispers to him soft; heavy. Calls him baby while he bottoms out  _ —you feel so good, baby, take it so good _ ; calls him all these pretty things because it’s safe and quiet, and Mickey’s chest is still kind of cracked open. Full. Tight. Hot all over. Perfect. Ian calls him perfect, and Mickey wishes he could be half of what Ian thinks of him, but right now he just  _ needs _ .

Then Ian was sitting back, and Mickey felt the coolness of the apartment again. He looked at Ian with question, feeling so fucking full and open and needy, needing to be touched. Ian just looked at him, unmoving, holding until Mickey was ready. Ian wanted to watch, wanted to watch Mickey like this. 

It was hot, and honestly he fucking loved it, loved how Ian looked at him. But still, he  _ needed… _ Mickey wet his lips, reaching for Ian, grabbing his hand, pulling. “Touch me,” he said. “Fuck,  _ please _ fucking touch me…”

Ian did. He did perfectly. “I got you, baby, I know,” he said it soft, reassuring; Mickey’s open chest sung for him.

The way Ian fucked him like this, Mickey was strung out. He was so hot all over, Ian’s hands gliding up and down his whole body, pulling his legs up on his waist, scratching dull nails down his ribs, curling softly around his throat while the other hand gripped his thigh. Every once in a while Ian wrapped his fingers around Mickey’s aching dick, giving him a couple strokes, making him keen and shake. Ian took him over completely. 

Mickey was nothing but breath and babbles. He couldn’t remember when it was  _ this _ good. And they’ve had a  _ lot _ of good sex. They have. Sometimes, back then, it was all they had because talking didn’t always work when they were younger, and bad shit was always happening that needed to be talked about. Hard and fast, slow and breathy… it’s  _ always _ been good. 

But something about how quiet Mickey’s body feels, how open his chest is, how Ian’s looking down at him and touches him all over has Mickey on another fucking planet right now. 

This was the realest Mickey’s ever felt.

“Perfect,” Ian breathed. 

Ian fucked him slow but deep. So fucking deep. Mickey was so full, he could hardly catch his breath, could hardly see straight, curses filling his mouth  _ —god, right there just like that, fuck me like that, fuck so fucking deep, Ian, fuck _ . It came out broken and ragged. 

He grabbed for one of Ian’s hands, pulling, putting it on his throat again, holding it there until Ian curled his fingers around him. Sometimes he needed Ian to hold him by the throat and bury himself deep and hard. Don’t ask what the reason is, what it’s supposed to do. They’re  _ his _ reasons, silent reasons he shares with Ian and Ian only. 

Ian knows. He always knows. He’s feeling so much, and needs to spread it out.

“Hold your legs up,” Ian told him. Dark, soft voice. Fingers flexed around Mickey’s throat, free hand sliding down to Mickey’s chest.

Mickey did, catching behind his knees, pulling until his eyes were rolling from the shifted angle. The hand around his throat squeezed so good, squeezed him tight, but just right. Ian knew. 

“I-Ian,” he gasped. Eyes shut tight, tingling all over. Yes, yes,  _ yes _ .

Ian rubbed his thumb over Mickey’s nipple, rubbed then pinched while his grip on his throat loosened for a second, then tightened right back up. “Like that, huh?”

Mickey’s fingers bit into the backs of his knees. Ian was fucking him faster, his hips snapping deep, blurring his edges. That sound, that sharp sound of skin on skin. Fingers flexing around his throat.  _ Ian’s _ fingers flexing around his throat. He was floating. Ian pinched again, harder, rocking his hips. He called Mickey perfect, called him good. 

Floating out to sea now. Fucking lost, unmanned ship… Mickey gave up, gave in. He inhaled deep when Ian let his throat go and opened his eyes. Mickey licked his lips, let his body take over while he let everything else float away to sea because the truth was he was so fucking safe right here and now. He was safe floating away with Ian.

He took over then, slow. Got them all switched around, kissing while they moved fluidly like they were one being. Then Mickey was looking down at Ian, pressing his hands against his freckled chest, hips rocking like they’ve been doing it this way for years. Like he was well practiced, like he knew what he was doing. Didn’t have to think about the way he moved right now. Just moved. Just touched. 

Ian was flushed and panting under him, staring at him, holding his hips, his thighs, touching everywhere again. When Ian reached up and put his hand on the side of Mickey’s face, Mickey leaned into him, slowing down, turning his head to catch Ian’s thumb with his mouth, tasting before letting him slip away. Ian was beautiful. Glowing. Looked happy and safe under him.

Faster. He was close. So close. Ian looked so good, and felt so good filling him up, touching all the best parts inside. Mickey leaned down meeting Ian somewhere in the middle for a kiss as the redhead propped up a little, legs bending behind Mickey a little, pushing up a little. Yeah. Fuck. Right there. Mickey lost his breath, eyes fluttering closed for a moment.

Mickey looked at Ian, kissed him harder, rocked back harder.  _ He _ said it this time, can’t remember ever really saying it before, but he needed to now. Because it was the truth. He felt it. It came out soft but sure, all breathy while he pushed back hard to meet Ian’s thrusts. 

“You’re mine.”

“Yeah,” Ian panted back, all fucked out. His eyes widened a little, head nodding as he punched out a moan. “Yeah I fucking am.”

It was everything.

 

* * *

 

Mickey was buzzed, sitting in the middle of Ian’s bed, sheets all tangled around him, Ian across from him sucking slow on the blunt, concentrating. Might have been really dumb, but they were getting high and playing War. First Mickey was winning, but now Ian was slowly picking him off card by card; he gave the redhead a strong middle finger every time he laughed.

He was going to enjoy this dumb shit while he could. Hanging out with Ian, making him laugh, talking a bunch of bullshit at each other. Like before, but before before. Before either of them looked at the other different for the first time.

Mickey grins slow at a memory from back then, “Ay, lemme ask you something.”

“Shoot,” Ian exhaled, handing Mickey the blunt.

He felt a little warm on the back of his neck, but at this point asking dumb questions like this were more welcome than not. “When did you know?”

Ian paused for a minute, taking another one of Mickey’s cards. “Know what, that I was gay?”

“Nah,” Mickey cleared his throat, looking over at him. He shrugged, “When you… fuck,” he shook his head, chuckling at himself. Ian was going to have a fucking ball with this. “You know, when you started looking at me different.”

That goofy laugh bubbled up, and Mickey tossed a two of diamonds at his dumb forehead. “You wanna know when I knew I started  _ liking _ you?”

Mickey sighed long, smiling despite himself. “Yeah.”

“Hmm,” Ian hummed dramatically, shuffling his half of the deck of cards. He squinted up at the ceiling in thought. “When did I first look at Mickey Milkovich and think  _ wow what a hottie _ .”

Mickey leaned over to the nightstand, keeping a narrow eye on Ian. He set the blunt in the ashtray and whipped his hand out, pinching Ian’s nipple until the redhead squealed like a little bitch. Mickey laughed roughly; Ian reached to get him back, but was blocked.

“Don’t be a dick,” Mickey said, but he still smiled as he blocked Ian’s hand again. It was hard not to smile, especially knowing it was just Ian being a shit. “C’mon. I’ll tell you if you tell me.”

Knew that would do the trick. Ian gave in instantly, nodding. “Okay… we were fourteen —well,  _ I  _ was fourteen. It was summer. And it was hot as fuck, middle of the day, in my backyard. It was  _ miserable _ , I remember that. You’re bitching about it. I’m bitching about. Lana’s bitching about it. It was awful.”

Mickey grins, starting to remember.

Ian laughs, “Then I dunno what the fuck happened, but you were like  _ fuck this _ , and went and got the hose… you remember that?”

Yeah. Mickey nodded, “Your pool got fucked up.” Someone ripped a giant hole in it, Mickey doesn’t remember who. Probably Carl. The heat had been record highs, with no shitty pool to cool down in, and the crowded public pool wasn’t worth it, that water was disgusting and hot anyways.

Ian’s got this wide smile, eyes all lit up as he nods, forgetting the card game. “Yeah! So you thought we could just… hose each other down.” He laughed, rolling his eyes. He paused, smile turning soft, remembering. Mickey remembers how he went and got the hose, turned it on and just came back and blasted the two of them, no warning. “I dunno, something about that day… after that stupid water fight, and Fiona’s yelling at us to stay out of the house until we dry out.”

“But we didn’t,” Mickey snorted a laugh.

Ian nodded, “She was  _ so _ pissed. You and Lana had to borrow my clothes… nothing special, you were  _ always _ in my shit,” Ian grinned; Mickey grinned back. “I dunno though. That day, you were wearing my Ozzy shirt… and I liked that. A lot. And the heat was trying to ruin the whole summer so far, but you fixed that one day. You had this  _ smile _ the rest of the day. Big ass smile. It scared the fuck outta me. It never stopped after that, just got worse and worse.”

It was quiet for a moment. Mickey couldn’t take his eyes off of Ian. His fiery hair was sticking up everywhere, bare freckled shoulders moving slow with his shrug. He remembered that day perfectly. That was a good day; something about it being a good day made Ian’s confession all that much sweeter.

“You’re turn,” Ian said, not letting Mickey wiggle out of it.

He breathed a laugh, reaching for the blunt, taking a hit, handing it to Ian. “So, you were shotgunning a beer—” Ian’s loud snort of a laugh interrupted him. Mickey flipped him off, grinning. “You remember when we started going to the dugouts in the middle of the night? Just us?”

Ian gave him a slow grin, “Oh yeah, I remember.”

Mickey rolled his eyes, “ _ Before _ we started banging. Why did we start doing that, anyways?”

“Banging?” Ian questioned. Mickey gave him a flat look. The redhead got pink around his ears, “Oh, uh… we just started meeting there real late, right? I think the first time we just met up there after you got out of juvie, then we just kept at it.”

Mickey nodded, that fit, yeah. “Okay, yeah. Anyways… I’d been feeling shit here and there, but you know how I was back then, I didn’t  _ get it _ . I was fucked up.” Those first few years were tough for Mickey, the first few years after he realized he was feeling things and thinking things about other boys that he didn’t want to feel or think.

“I remember,” Ian nodded.

“I was having a  _ really _ fucking hard time being around you,” Mickey admitted. But Ian already knew that. “You were acting different around me.”

“I was crazy about you,” Ian said soft.

Mickey grinned slow, warm all over. There was something about the dugouts that eased all that anger Mickey felt as a kid, all that confusion. Late at night, shotgunning beers and bullshitting around with Ian erased all the other shit. For a moment. He wasn’t so angry during those times. He felt freer, felt more relaxed, felt like Ian was acting normal around him, despite still keeping his hands fully to himself. 

It was this odd silent agreement that that time and place they could just relax and forget that Mickey said shitty things about gay stuff, and Ian wasn’t actively trying to avoid touching him like the plague. Ian still didn’t touch him, but it was easier to take at the field.

_ Ian laughs, eyes rolling. Stupid fucking laugh, but Mickey wants to hear it again. He can’t stop staring at his best friend, can’t stop his eyes from following Ian’s movements, watching the way his chest rises and falls when he takes a deep breath. It’s getting harder and harder to be around him, harder for Mickey to keep his shit together. _

_ Right now he feels like he’s at the peak of that difficulty. Just hit him like a train. _

_ Mickey grabs another warm beer from their six pack, watching Ian jump up and grab the dugout overhang, pulling himself up a few times. He moved easily, pulling up and letting down a few times. Ian was strong. Mickey liked that. He liked a lot about Ian —what wasn’t there to like? He knew best friends shouldn’t look at each other the way he was looking at Ian right now. Mickey wanted to stop. He wanted to stop so bad, wanted to go back to before, when he didn’t like  _ anyone _ , when sex and attraction weren’t anywhere near his mind. When he was just… him. Just a stupid dirty kid. _

_ He cleared his throat, fishing his butterfly knife out of his pocket. “C’mere, tough guy.” _

_ Ian jumped down from doing his pull-ups. Apparently he wasn’t paying much attention because he came right up to Mickey, just like he used to. It felt so much closer than that though. Ian had been so far away for so long, and now he was right there… Mickey could feel the glow of heat from Ian’s body. _

_ He wondered… what it would be like. With Ian. He doesn’t want to think about his best friend like that, but he couldn’t stop the thought. What did Ian feel like? What did he sound like? Fuck, what did he taste like? Mickey was used to a certain feel, a certain sound. He didn’t know those guys, probably couldn’t pick a single one of them out of a line-up if he had to. _

_ Ian probably wouldn’t want that. Probably wouldn’t want to be with Mickey, if he knew how much he’s fucked around. Mickey doesn’t like to think about it too much. But it is what it is. Can’t help but still wonder though. Ian looks so good… and all that’s been on Mickey mind lately when he’s around the redhead is this overwhelming need to be touched by him…  _

“I started the beer, handed it off to you…” Mickey sighed at the memory, closing his eyes for a moment. “You put your mouth where mine just was, and my first thought was… fuck, now I’m gonna get hard.” He laughed with Ian. “Fucking  _ wanted _ you. More than anything. I couldn’t put it off anymore, I wanted you so bad that I didn’t stop myself, or you.”

“I was so scared, but I went for it,” Ian said, soft smile. “Shoulda seen how you were looking at me.” The redhead cleared his throat, shifting how he sat.

Mickey wet his lips, watching him, tilting his chin towards him, “You getting hard?”

“Fuck off, Mickey.”

Mickey laughed loud with Ian, throwing his handful of cards at him when the redhead charged forward, tackling him to the bed. They wrestled like there was absolutely nothing to worry about. They wrestled and laughed, playfully slapping at each other, acting like everything was okay in the rest of the world. 

They  _ played _ like it was fucking normal.

Ian kissed Mickey, holding him down. Mickey squeezed his legs around Ian’s middle until Ian groaned for mercy, claiming he couldn’t breathe. Mickey laughed. They kissed again, surrounded by wrinkled sheets and playing cards, breathing hard into each others mouths.

“Mm,” Ian flopped down on his side next to Mickey. He propped up on his elbow, grinning like a fool. Best grin Mickey’s ever seen; his cheeks were bloomed with pinks from their roughhousing. “Okay but, was it good that first time?”

“Yeah,” Mickey breathed a laugh. He closed his eyes when Ian ran his hand over him. “It was fucking good… but, ya know… I still had to teach ya a few things.”

That time Mickey was the one to get his nipple pinched until he squealed like a bitch.

 

* * *

 

Reality snuck back in. Days after that great night with Ian, Mickey had to get to work. He really didn’t want to, at all. He didn’t want to do what he had to, sucking up to his father, pretending that he’d been right all along, pretending that what Terry put them through was… the right thing to do. It made him sick.

But there was an end game. This wasn’t going to be all for nothing. If Mickey wanted to be free, he was going to have to fucking work for it. Even if that meant falling into Terry’s web. Ian told him to remember one thing: Terry was going to think he has the upper hand, but he  _ doesn’t _ . Mickey has the upper hand here. Mickey’s moving the pieces around, controlling Terry’s fate. It’s in  _ Mickey’s _ hands. 

For some reason, that worked. He just had to keep reminding himself of that. 

“Elevators out of order,” a nasally voice cut through Mickey’s thoughts.

Mickey frowned, looking over at the older woman at the motel’s front desk. Her frizzy orange hair was pulled up on top of her head, looking like a character out of a John Hughes movie.

Why the fuck couldn’t Sanders and Torres set up shop in  _ nicer _ motels? This place was better than the last, but not by much. He still spotted a dinosaur sized roach skitting across the floor, and it really sounded like the lady at the front desk lost a vital organ when she blew her nose.

He took the stairs to the third floor. The flickering light in the stairway hurt his eyes as he passed it. Someone further up was yelling, the sound echoing loud and indistinct.

Sanders opened the door. 307. She frowned at him, ushering him inside quickly, then ducked her head out into the hallway, looking around before she closed the door.

“No one followed me,” Mickey rolled his eyes. “Trust me.” 

This was going to be a brief meeting. No wires today, nothing like that. “So, what’s going on?” Torres asked.

Mickey jumped up on the dresser, not wanting anywhere near the bed —Torres and Sanders took the only chairs in the room, by the table they’ve been working on. “I’m going about this shit a different way,” he said. “And it’s gonna put me in some…  _ precarious _ positions.” 

Learned that one in prison. Crossword; ten letter word for  _ dicey _ .

“What sort of precarious positions?” Sanders asked carefully.

Mickey was tired. Didn’t want to be here that long, hated that he was even doing this shit in the first place. “Listen, I’m gonna be putting myself under my dad’s thumb, so I dunno what’s gonna go down, but… it needs to be this way. This is my last card, so I need a little fucking slack here. I get caught with shit I shouldn’t have… or doing something I shouldn’t be doing… I can’t get picked up for that. I’m  _ not _ going back to prison, okay? Not fucking happening.”

Torres rubbed at his temples, “You realize that we can’t give you carte blanche, right?”

“What’s this  _ plan _ ?” Sanders asked.

Mickey pulled a face, pulling a cigarette out of his pack, lighting up. “Fucking told you, be under my dad’s thumb.”

“And… that’s it?”

Mickey nodded. That’s all they needed to know for now; Mickey didn’t want to show all his cards, not to the feds. “He ain’t gonna tell me fuck-all if I’m not his fucking lap dog.”

Torres leaned over close to Sanders. They spoke quietly to each other for a few minutes. Mickey sat there and smoked, getting more and more irritated. He couldn’t just hang around here. No one followed him, but he was smart enough to know that when you’re a fucking rat, you have to go places you don’t normally go, see people you don’t normally see. That woman at the front desk saw him. A couple outside of the motel saw him.

He bounced his foot, eyes flicking over to the alarm clock. He’d been there for too long, the  _ got to get the hell out of here _ feeling was starting to stab at his gut.

Sanders finally spoke up, “There’s a limit, you know that right?”

Mickey nodded. Obviously. “M’just saying if he puts me in the middle of a bad deal again, you’re  _ gonna _ let me go. You have to… I’m the only one you’ve got, and I’m the only one you’re  _ gonna _ get.”

Torres pursed his lips together like he was unhappy with Mickey thinking he could run shit. Too fucking bad, Mickey was putting his whole life on the line for a confession that has nothing to fucking do with him. They knew Mickey wouldn’t willingly get caught up in something like that again. They even said it themselves: he was too smart for that shit.

“You take advantage of this, the deal is off, do you understand?” Sanders asked.

Mickey nodded again. “Yeah, I know.”

“We can’t protect you from everything, Mickey,” Torres said. “You have a line you can’t cross. You pop someone from a rival gang, you’re going down for murder... you understand this?”

Mickey bit the inside of his cheek hard. “ _ Yes _ ,” he said.

Sander’s brows were perched high as she looked at him. “We’re already extending this for your wife’s surrogacy, this needs to work. If it doesn’t—”

“Yeah, I fucking know, no deal,” Mickey slid off the dresser, taking a drag from his cigarette before he stubbed it out in the motel room’s cheap ashtray. “Just don’t take me in for some bullshit drug charges or some shit like that. I have to be under my dad’s thumb, and I can’t do that if I’m sitting in county.”

He wouldn’t get caught. But you never really knew when Terry was involved. On his own, Mickey could fly under the radar easy. Under Terry’s wing, there was no shelter from consequences. 

Terry would use his own child as a human shield if it meant he’d get away unscathed. 

“It’s our understanding that your brother Colin is more-or-less your father’s right hand man,” Torres commented.

Mickey pulled a face, “He’s not his right-hand-man, he’s just been wedged up my dad’s ass since I got locked up.” Colin was playing the game like Mickey used to, doing whatever he could to win Terry’s favor, but instead it was because he wanted that President patch. Colin still got shit from Terry, but he also got a glimmer of respect and pride. That glimmer might as well have been a goddamn spotlight.

Torres looked over at Sanders, “He have any warrants right now?”

What?

Sanders shrugged, “Probably… I can look into it.”

“Wait,” Mickey cleared his throat. He shook his head, “I don’t need him out of the way, don’t pick him up… he’s got a fucking kid, man.”

“If he’s got warrants, he’s got warrants,” Torres’ voice was hard, unyielding. “He’s not off-limits Mickey, you’re not making the rules here on who we can and can’t arrest.”

A wave of sick and heat washed over him. Colin was his fucking brother. He was blood.

But Mickey couldn’t stay there any longer, and knew when to quit while he was ahead. These feds held a lot of Mickey’s future and security in their hands, and  _ unfortunately _ , there wasn’t shit he could do about it. Couldn’t even warn Colin without fucking unravelling everything. Fuck.

He left, slamming the shitty motel room’s door behind him. 

_ Fuck _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Christina, thank you for all the help you've given me on this <3
> 
> Whoever caught the little SOA ref gets a gold star + a tap on da butt, good job kid.  
> Also I 100% cried during writing Mickey's first flashback :(((((
> 
> lemme know whatcha thought! :)


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a 3 month time jump, and also... quite a few flashbacks. Enjoy :)

_**Dear Lip,** _

_**Don’t hate me.** _

 

Crumpled. Start again.

 

_**Lip,** _

_**I’m sorry.** _

 

Ian took a deep breath, leaning back against his headboard, staring down at the notebook in his lap. There was a slowly growing pile of balled up sheets of paper to his side. He didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know what he could possibly say other than _hey please don’t hate me for up and leaving the entire fucking family forever, I did it for love damnit!_

This was the part about everything that Ian had been avoiding. The reality. He understood everything he was going to do, he understood what he was walking away from, he understood the sacrifices he was going to have to make from the moment he made up his mind. Not “getting it” wasn’t the problem. It was figuring out how to be at peace with it, even though he would be getting nearly everything he ever wanted.

All he ever wanted was to be wanted, to be loved, to be known. Ian’s always been wanted; he knows what he looks like, he spent a lot of time growing into himself since Mickey was taken from him years ago. He learned a lot. He knows how to get men to want him.

This want is different though. The want that Ian feels from men is selfish. They want what they want, they want his body… might as well be a shell. Might as well be just a body. Mickey’s never made him feel like that. Mickey’s wanted him _wholly_ —wanted him inside and out, all the dark and fucked up parts and all the nice and shiny pieces. Mickey wants _him_.

_You’re everything I ever wanted._

It’s been three months since Mickey confessed that. Broke Ian into little tiny pieces, shattered him in the most beautiful way. Everything he’s ever wanted. Mickey wants him. He wants _him_ , and he loves him, and he knows him. Knows him better than anyone in the entire world. Knows what Ian’s saying when there’s no sound, knows what he needs, knows why he is the way he is. Mickey _knows_ him, he _loves_ him and he fucking _wants_ him.

Mickey’s everything _Ian_ ever wanted. Because on top of all those things…? God, Ian craves Mickey like he’s never craved anyone ever —to his bones, to his soul, he craves him. Not just physically. He _craves_ him. And he _knows_ that man, he knows that man like he knows his own name. Knows all the terrible parts of him, knows the best parts, knows the broken parts… and he wants it all. Craves it all. Bad and good, it’s all Mickey, it’s all worth it.

Ian’s never been able to love anyone besides Mickey. He tried. He did, he gave it an honest fucking effort and still… there was just an empty festering crater in his chest that had only one remedy. How cheesy and ridiculous, to say that the brunette made him whole. Ian hated that it was accurate, hated that he was reducing how he felt to cheesy love-sick bullshit, but here he was… staring his truth in the face.

Another thought. Fleeting and possibly selfish, but Ian grabbed onto it and looked it in the eyes. They _earned_ this happiness. They did. He almost tossed the notebook to the side because there was this part of him that scoffed at the idea of fucking _explaining_ himself to his family, his family who would never in a million years understand or accept his choice.

Ian looks out of the window. It’s night, the streetlight outside was casting a yellow glow. Ian hadn’t been able to rest, the sudden attention to the fact he was leaving his entire life suffocated any lethargy. The restaurant downstairs didn’t close until two in the morning. If he listened close enough, sometimes Ian could hear them yelling in the kitchen; it was weirdly comforting. Like now, Ian heard the faintest of ceramic crashing to the floor, followed by an uproar of laughter and shouting.

Ian reached for the pack of cigarettes on his nightstand, lit one up. The pack was Mickey’s even though they smoked the same kind. He’d left them the last time he was over.

What a clusterfuck.

A couple weeks ago, Ian had dinner at Lip’s. Carl ended up stopping by too, with Liam. Lip’s wife Chrissy made a huge pot of spaghetti and meat sauce, and too much garlic bread… she learned the hard way one too many times that if you invite one Gallagher over for dinner it’s more than likely that a few others will come scavenge also, if not allof them. (Chrissy grew up as an only child with sober, mentally stable parents, so it was a bit of a learning curve, but she’s got it down now).

Two year old little Sarah squealed and climbed all over her uncles, like she always does. Liam is endlessly patient with her, Carl makes her laugh until she screams, and Ian almost always ends up with tiny fingers digging into his hair while she perches herself up on his shoulders. Sarah is grossly adored and spoiled rotten by the all the siblings, being the first kid any of them had by some fucking _miracle_.

Fuck _._

He would be out of his mind if one of his siblings ran off forever with no explanation. It would ruin him, make him pace endlessly and scream into his pillow. It would be a real shitty thing if he pulled a Monica and left out of nowhere, no warning.

This was different than Monica though, wasn’t it? Monica left because… Ian couldn’t even pin down _why_ his mother left over and over again, other than selfishness. Yeah, she was sick but how long can you use that reason before it wears out? What’s the excuse when she’s _not_ manic, and still leaves; what’s the excuse when she’s leveled out and doesn’t come back to her children, her _six_ children?

This was different. It was still selfish, but it was different. And the thing was that just about all of Ian’s siblings were _grown_ now, Liam getting ready to get out of high school —fuck, he’d been accepted to _Howard_ , the kid was going to be busy taking over the entire fucking globe, getting the hell out of South Side. Also there was the fact that Ian didn’t live at the Gallagher house anymore, hadn’t for a while… nothing but ‘familial bond’ was tethered to him. He was an adult.

Ian sighs, looking back down at the notebook. He could tell himself that nothing was tethered to him here in Chicago all he wanted, but he’d only be telling half truths. His family was fucked up and on his damn nerves most of the time, but they were _his_ family.

He started again.

He started about five or six more times, adding to the pile of trashed paper to his side. The words weren’t coming out right, every time he started they seemed… less than they should be. Ian didn’t know what to say, didn’t know what the correct thing to say was. He was going to leave forever. He wanted this with everything he had, he just had to come to terms with the fact that he couldn’t have everything.

Not wanting to work himself up, Ian eventually tossed the notebook on the floor, threw away all the garbage he accumulated, and checked the time. He had to go; there was a little flip in his gut, a little pull at the corner of his mouth. He hadn’t seen Mickey in almost a full week, because Mickey was busy being in full Iron Eagle mode, and he missed him. So much.

He almost left right away, and probably should have. Instead, Ian ran into his bathroom, checking his hair and clothes, making sure he looked decent. Why was he nervous to see Mickey? It was Mickey. He knew it was stupid, and there were other things on his mind to worry about, moreover Mickey didn’t give a _shit_ if his hair was laying nice or not… it wasn’t going to stay like that anyway.

A week, though. A whole week without Mickey, without even a conversation, a word, nothing. Radio fucking silent. Ian wanted to look good for him, so the fuck what.

 

* * *

 

Ian sniffed, pulling his jacket closer to his body. Summer had been hot this year, and autumn turned out to be a bit of a bitch too. He stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets as he sat on the cold metal bench; looked out at the field for a minute. It was so quiet, Ian couldn’t even hear any cars driving by or gun pops in the distance, nothing. It was kind of eerie and perfect at the same time. He liked sharing the quiet with Mickey.

With a soft sigh, Ian turned around to check the clock. Mickey was five minutes late.

“It’s fine,” Ian whispered to himself.

Normally Mickey got here first. He did back in the day, anyways. Mickey would get there right on time and have to be waiting for Ian’s ass to show up five or ten minutes late. Ian was always late to shit, everything but work and school. Mickey was the punctual one. He was either on time or didn’t show, one or the other.

It’s fine. Ian told himself again. It’s _fine_.

Five minutes turned into ten.

Ian stood up, shook himself out, tried to get his blood flowing to stave off the chill in the air. Tried not to freak out. It’s fine. Mickey’s fine. _Don’t think about everything that could go wrong, don’t think of worst case scenarios_. It’s fine.

Ten minutes turns into fifteen, and Ian has to really put in the work to talk himself down from having a worried fit over where the fuck Mickey is.

After thirty minutes hits, Ian’s walking out of the dugouts. Something’s wrong. Mickey should be here by now. It didn’t feel right, and maybe it was all nerves, but they had this _planned_ , and Mickey is never fucking late, he just isn’t. They haven’t seen each other in a week, Mickey wouldn’t just bail. He wouldn’t do that.

On time or not at all. There or not there. Yes or no.

His eyes and throat sting, mind wants to start coming up with grizzly scenarios to explain Mickey’s absence. Ian tells himself to stop when he gets into his car. Tells himself again when he’s turning it on and pulling out of the parking space. It’s fine. Stop.

Ian parks a block away from Mickey and Svetlana’s house, where he normally does now. He shouldn’t be coming around at this hour unannounced, but right now he doesn’t really give a fuck. He keeps his hands jammed into his jacket pockets and clamps his jaw shut tight. He hates not knowing what’s going on, hates being out of the loop. Mickey’s never late, and he wouldn’t just _not_ show up to see Ian after a week of not even talking on the phone. He wouldn’t.

Mickey’s bike isn’t in the drive. Ian’s stomach sinks.

Svetlana comes to the door with a hammer, sighing and tossing it to the side when she sees it’s only him. “What’s going on?” she asks, blinking the sleep from her eyes. Her belly finally popped a little bit, and she was sporting that pregnancy glow even at almost two in the morning.

“Is he here?” Ian asks. “He was supposed to meet me but he didn’t show up.”

She blinks, confused, then shakes her head, “He’s still at the club?”

Ian tries not to panic, but he’s mind is already going a million miles an hour. He holds his breath, throat too tight to breathe. “I… I dunno, I dunno what’s going on. What if—”

“Ian, don’t go there,” Svetlana’s voice is placating. She’s trying to calm him, but her voice threatens to shake.

But he’s already rocketing down that road, has been for the past half hour. Ian blinks a couple times, looking around the softly lit living room. “Lana, he can’t go through that again—”

Es’ sleepy voice is soft, coming from the hall.

Svetlana’s already dived into the panic pool with Ian, calling to her girlfriend, “It’s fine baby, go back to bed,” before she’s rushing over to the kitchen phone, Ian right behind her.

While Svetlana is quickly dialing the number to the clubhouse, Ian stands next to her, waiting, watching, still unable to properly breathe. She waits. He waits. Es comes into the kitchen wrapped in a blue blanket and wild hair, immediately seeing the concern on their faces.

“What’s going on?” she asked Ian.

“No answer,” Svetlana shakes her head, hanging the phone up. She immediately picks it back up and dials again. “Come on, come on, come on…”

Ian sighs heavily, hand running over his hair. It’s fine. It’s fine. Mickey’s fucking fine. “Mickey didn’t show up where he was supposed to meet me,” he explains to Es.

A little over a month ago, the four of them went out to dinner together —went out a couple times in fact. Es was a nice girl, so sweet with Svetlana. But Ian couldn’t really think about that right now, there was no more room in his head for memories.

Es’ dark eyes fall soft, hand gently curling around Ian’s arm like they’d been friends for years and she was trying to make him feel better. “There are explanations besides the worst case scenario, okay?”

“I know, but…” Ian whispered, eyes stinging.

“Fuck!” Svetlana hissed, hanging the phone up a second time before picking it up again. Her eyes were glassy at this point, bottom lip tight between her teeth as she dialed. “Come on, answer the _fucking_ phone!”

It was like all the sound in the world got pulled through a tunnel, and Ian was left breathless and leaning against the wall, trying to steady himself. Es was splitting her attention between Ian and Svetlana with soft eyes, obviously trying to figure out a game plan here.

Finally, Svetlana grabbed Ian’s shoulder hard, getting his attention, “Oh my god Sully, thank god it’s you… where the fuck is Mickey?”

Ian slid down the wall onto the floor. He leaned back heavily against the wall, feeling like a dead fish floating on water, “ _Christ_.” He didn’t let himself fully relax yet, still not knowing what was going on with his boyfriend, but at least someone picked up the phone, and it was Sully.

Svetlana listened to Sully, nodding, face hard. “ _Really_ ?” she sucked on her teeth, brow raising. “I talked to him a fucking _hour_ ago, he said he was getting ready to leave…”

Ian shook his head, huffing a laugh with zero conviction behind it. “Great.”

Es gave him a sympathetic look, hand falling to rest on his shoulder, giving him a soft squeeze.

“Okay well, next time you see him tell him he fucked up and he’ll be _lucky_ if he doesn’t end up fucking _his hand_ for the rest of his _stupid_ life. And tell him I said _fuck you_ ,” Svetlana hissed into the phone before she slammed the phone down on the receiver. “He’s fine,” her voice was clipped, irritated, when she told Ian.

Ian didn’t know if he wanted to breathe or puke. Mickey bailed on him.

“You haven’t seen him in a _week_!” Svetlana pushed her hair out of her face. Her cheeks were flushed with frustration, jaw working as she bit down hard.

“Yeah,” Ian muttered.

Es went to Svetlana, and Ian watched as she gently caught her by the elbow with an achingly soft touch, sliding down to hold Svetlana’s hand. Es always touches her so soft, and Ian is grateful for that, for his friend. That’s what Svetlana needs sometimes, he knows —probably more times than he even knows.

He didn’t know what the actual name of this feeling was, but it was shitty. This toxic maggoty lump in his chest made from disappointment, humiliation and hurt. Going from feeling a surge of panic and fear to dropping to this was instantly draining, sucking all the energy and life out of Ian at once.

“I’m gonna fucking kill him,” Svetlana said, leaning into Es’ touch. “You want me to go down there and get him?”

“No,” Ian sniffed. He got up from the floor and moved to the kitchen table; the two women followed his lead, sitting across from him. “No, that’ll piss him off.”

“I don’t give a fuck,” Svetlana scoffs, pulling a face.

“Lana,” Ian sighed. They knew it was going to have to be like this.

“No,” she stood, stomping to the fridge; Ian kept staring down at the table. Her voice carried loudly from the other side of the room, along with soft clinking sounds and slamming cabinets. “You haven’t seen this shit lately, Ian. He’s so far up Terry’s ass, he could tell you what that motherfucker had for breakfast three days ago.”

The first month, Mickey ran all over Chicago for Terry like a fucking errand boy. It’s where he had to start to get back into Terry’s good graces, and it made him feel like shit constantly, made him feel like a bitch. But he did it. Went back to knocking a couple back with his father too, swapping bullshit stories.

Ian didn’t know how he managed it, but Mickey came to him during every spare moment he had; he shed his skin at the door and became honey. That first month was nothing short of amazing for them. Dinners and getting drinks at bars, they got high and Ian started showing Mickey movies he’d missed. He missed a plethora of Seagal movies including Under Siege one _and_ two, so they started there. Ian managed to get the first season of Walker Texas Ranger, and Mickey just about lost his goddamn mind over it.  

_Ian’s been watching Mickey for the past ten minutes, like an absolute creep but he can’t take his eyes off of him. The brunette is sleeping heavily, white sheets tangled around him, cheek nestled into the pillow. It’s the third night in a row that Mickey’s slept over, and Ian feels like he’s dreaming. He reaches out carefully, sliding his hand over the side of Mickey’s face, cupping his cheek._

_Blue eyes open slow, and Ian sighs soft when Mickey sleepily reaches for him, pulling him close so they wrapped up in each other, chest to chest. Ian dips his head down to brush a kiss across Mickey’s mouth, telling him that he loves him. Mickey grins in return before he says it back._

Then the second month hit, and Terry was warming back up to Mickey. Didn’t have Mickey running around the whole city so much, but he took up even more of Mickey’s time. As far as Ian could tell, Mickey was gaining his respect back in the club. It was great… at the club. Somewhere during the second month, Mickey started pulling away. Just little things, little things seemed so inconsequential on the outside. But they weren’t.

Like the time Ian pulled Mickey down on his lap, and Mickey tensed up like he used to. It was quick, and Ian almost missed it because he was too busy tasting the inside of Mickey’s mouth, but it happened. Then it happened a second time… then a third. And when Ian finally said something about it, Mickey rolled his eyes and denied it. So when Ian asked if Mickey would ride him there on the couch, and Mickey said he wanted it from behind with that _face…_ that sex face he makes when he’s trying to deflect away from whatever the fuck is going on with him, _that_ fucking sex face.

Sex was important in their relationship. It just was. They said a lot through sex. They learned about themselves —about each other— through sex. So these things that might seem silly to be bothered by… Ian kept note, put a small half-mast red flag on top.

_Ian’s body was still humming, chest still heaving with every deep breath he sucked in, watching Mickey lay boneless next to him, staring up at the ceiling with a slight grin on his lips. Ian reached out for Mickey’s hand, but the brunette was already moving, already getting out of the bed with a soft groan._

_Ian frowned, “Where are you going?”_

_Mickey looked back at him, a flash of guilt in his eyes, “I gotta go.”_

_It was three in the fucking morning. “Where?” Ian’s frown deepened._

_Mickey was already getting dressed though, already pulling his worn in jeans on, tugging his t-shirt on. He cleared his throat, not looking at Ian, “I just can’t stay tonight, okay?”_

_Goodbye afterglow. Ian huffed, eyes rolling as he forced himself to get out of his bed, heading to the bathroom. His face burned, insides taunting him because his boyfriend didn’t want to spend the night after Ian just put in some_ good _goddamn work. He shut the door loudly and locked it behind him, making a show that_ yes _he was pouting and_ no _he didn’t fucking care._

_“Ian,” Mickey’s voice called from the other side of the door, like he was trying to convince a twelve year old to knock it off. “C’mon.”_

_Ian cleaned himself up, ignoring his boyfriend —splashed some cold water on his face, took a wet rag to his junk. He looked at himself in the mirror and frowned again. It was supposed to be different. Mickey had to do what he had to do, but he was also pulling shit like this when he fucking_ promised _it would be different._

_There was a knock on the door, “Ian.”_

_Ian closed his eyes, taking a long breath. “Yeah?”_

_“You gonna come out?”_

_He had to bite his tongue to stop himself from flipping the question back on Mickey, because he knew it wouldn’t be fair. “Hold on,” he said instead. He cleared his throat, then grabbed a dry towel to wrap around his hips, not really sure why he was covering up._

_Mickey was sitting on the end of Ian’s bed when he opened the bathroom door. The brunette looked up at him with soft eyes, and Ian wanted to yell at him that it wasn’t fucking fair to look at him like that when he was leaving when he didn’t fucking need to._

_“So… you gonna leave the money on the dresser, or…” Ian knew it was shitty to say it, but it just came out._

_He didn’t get a response. Not a real one other than Mickey rolling his eyes and shaking his head before he stood and grabbed his keys off of Ian’s nightstand. “See you in a couple days, m’headed out to St. Louis in the morning.”_

_“What?” Ian croaked, eyes going wide. Why didn’t he fucking say anything before? “When were you going to fucking tell me?”_

_Mickey shrugged at him, “I’m telling you now. The fuck’s it matter?”_

_“Mickey,” Ian’s brows drew sharply together. “What the fuck?”_

_Again, the brunette rolled his eyes but Ian saw right past that shit, saw that same flash of guilt from before. Mickey wasn’t letting himself bend to Ian right now, wasn’t letting his chest crack open. “I’ll be back before you know it, don’t be such a fucking drama queen.”_

_Something inside Ian begged him to stay calm, and Ian did his best to listen to that. He took a deep breath, hand moving over his hair as he nodded. Fine. It came out disingenuine and tired, but Ian didn’t fucking care, “Have fun, Mick. Gimme a call when you get back.”_

_Mickey hesitated, frowning, “You okay?”_

_“Sure,” Ian breathed, dropping his towel so he could fish a pair of boxers out of his dresser. He pulled them on, then looked over at Mickey, forcing a smile. “Why wouldn’t I be?”_

_Mickey didn’t answer, his jaw just clenched tight. “Gonna say something to me?”_

_“What?” Ian asked, folding his arms in front of him. “Thanks for the fuck?”_

_Mickey made a frustrated grunt as he stood, “The fuck’s your problem?”_

_“Not fighting with you,” Ian told him. “And if you think you have any right to be pissed right now… why don’t you take a few days to think about it when you get back…_ then _you give me a call.”_

_Mickey dragged his eyes up and down Ian, but not in that way that made Ian go all warm._

_“Bye, Mickey,” Ian said._

_“Ian,” Mickey cleared his throat._

_“I love you.” Ian meant it when he said it, Mickey knew that. Even though it didn’t sound like like Ian said it voluntarily, like he would rather say anything else in the world… god, he fucking meant it with everything he had. “Be careful.”_

The closer Mickey gets to Terry, the further he gets away from Ian. And when the third month hit, Ian was fucking scared about it. It scared him how easy it was for Mickey to slip back into that old armor, how he had started to welcome it. Ian has to coax him out of the armor when Mickey comes to him, has to peel back the layers and get Mickey to see what’s there. He has to get him to see how good he is, remind him of himself.

Now Ian’s lucky if he gets to see Mickey once a week. Mickey said all these _things_ before. He said he wanted to “live his life”, said he was “tired of being controlled”, said he “wanted to be normal with Ian, have a normal relationship”. They had that one good month, and then Terry pulled Mickey away… yet fucking again.

Mickey _promised_.

Ian closed his eyes, stuffing everything down. “He has to stay close to Terry.”

“He doesn’t have to bail on you,” she snapped. Svetlana came back to the table with two beers and a glass of water for herself, then slammed the bottles down in the center of the table between Ian and Es, “Drink for me.”

Neither one of them even try to refuse, not that it was even a consideration for Ian. Es reaches for Svetlana’s hand as she takes a sip from her bottle. Svetlana looks at her girl like she’s the only splinter of light in a cold, damp basement, gives her a soft thankful smile. Es does that for Svetlana, and Ian couldn’t be happier for his friend for finding someone that both softens and strengthens her. He’s also grateful for Es’ easiness with all the chaos, having been birthed from chaos herself. She knows how shit can get complicated, doesn’t look sideways at it.

Ian takes a couple chugs, letting the cold liquid coat his throat. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, “Had to be a good reason.”

Svetlana huffs an empty laugh, “Doubt it. You’re leaving your whole fucking _life_ for him, and he doesn’t even have the decency to—”

“Lana,” Ian cut her off, tone short. He didn’t want to do this with her, and he didn’t want to sit and listen to her talk shit about Mickey. “It’s fine.”

“No it’s _not_ , and you know it,” she replied. “He knows you. He knows you were gonna sit there and freak the fuck out if he didn’t show.”

Ian doesn’t say anything to that, because there’s nothing to say. Maybe Mickey got the days mixed up, maybe he didn’t realize what time it was because he was drunk… maybe he figured Ian’s already leaving with him, what was the point in— Ian ran his hand over his hair, forcing that thought away. It was an unfair bullshit thought, not true at all.

“You wanna wait for him?” Es asked.

For a moment, he considered it. Only a moment. That maggoty lump in his chest took over, and the disappointment and humiliation and hurt hardened. He loved Mickey and wanted to be there for Mickey, but… _he_ needed Mickey too.

“No,” he said, draining the rest of his beer. He set it on the table, getting up. “No, I’ve waited for him enough for one night.”

Svetlana and Es both hugged him, and honestly it was nice, something he didn’t know he needed until Svetlana wrapped her arms around him tight and told him she loved him, that she was sorry his night ended up like this, that she was going to kick Mickey’s ass into next year.

Ian left, walked to his car with his hands shoved into his jacket pockets. His eyes stung more, got all watery, and even though no one was around to be embarrassed in front of, he still was.

He wanted to throw a fit like a fucking toddler. Stomp his feet and break things. It wasn’t fair. He was walking to his car in the cold, all worked up because his boyfriend bailed on him after not seeing each other for a week. It wasn’t _fair_.

When Mickey was gone, Ian had forgot about this part. _How_ could he forget about this part? Knowing Mickey had to be a certain person, knowing he had demanding responsibilities, knowing he had to live his life a certain way. But wanting _more_ , wanting a _normal relationship…_ wanting to have Mickey all to himself. Ian didn’t want to share Mickey with the club _or_ the fucking girls at the club. Fuck!

Ian’s had to share everything his entire life, even down to the person he was in love with. And he was fucking tired of it. It didn’t feel good, _this_ didn’t feel good. They were so close to having everything they wanted, but Mickey felt so far away.

He was fucking _crying_ , jamming his car key into the door… but he wasn’t paying attention and he was too angry, and so he turned too hard, snapping the thing off inside the lock.

“Fuck!” Ian yelled, kicking his door. He threw his keys down on the ground, hands flying to his hair, scrubbing at his scalp. He kicked his door again. “Fuck!”

Of course. Ian slid his hands down over his face, then rested them on his hips while he laughed. It was all hollow and strained sounding, absolutely zero humor left in his lungs. He shook his head, letting his anger and disappointment fuel the sting inside of him.

The moment he broke the drivers side window with his elbow, he regretted it. Knew he would regret it even before he connected with the glass. It took two tries to fully break it in, and hurt like a bitch, but Ian was angry and wanted to go home. It was impulsive and stupid; at least he was wearing a jacket and his skin didn’t get torn up.

Ian hissed in pain when he started brushing the broken glass off of his seat with his bare hand, like an idiot. Stopping for a second, he looked down at his cut up palm and fingers. His vision got all watery again, blurry, welled up until they spilled. He sniffed, using his good hand to carefully make sure there were no more little pieces of glass.

An irregular pattern of dotted blood scattered over his skin, seeping into the grooves of his palm. Ian swallowed, blinking away his tears before he got the driver’s side back door open, looking around for something to use to get the rest of the glass off. His hand stung; probably still had a couple tiny shards of glass somewhere, he’d have to take care of that when he got home.

As if his night couldn’t get any fucking worse, red and blue lights pull up. Ian swears harshly under his breath, taking a step back from his car. The police officer gets out, flashlight shining in his eyes; Ian winces, head turning away from the beam, raising his hands out in front of him.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’s been facing a cop like this, and his whole body curled tightly inside.

“ _Ian_?”

Oh thank fuck. “Hey Tony,” Ian sighed, shoulders relaxing along with his arms.

Tony clicked his flashlight off. “Got a call about someone breaking into a car.”

Ian snorted, “And you got here that quick? That’s gotta be a new record for CPD.”

“I was in the neighborhood,” Tony gave him a look. He was always in the neighborhood; he was also proud to be a cop. The Gallaghers liked to poke at him about it a little.

At this point, Ian just wanted to go home though. “I broke my key in my door.”

“So you… broke your window?”

“Yeah,” Ian sighed.

Tony nodded, looking at Ian’s car. There was glass all over the sidewalk, the broken window looking like some kind of open monster mouth. “Okay… what was step two of this plan?”

Ian laughed for real, shoulders shrugging, “I was gonna hotwire it and go home.”

The cold splash of a normal, mundane conversation was ridiculous. This was fucking _ridiculous_.

“So…” Tony scratched the side of his head with the butt of his flashlight. “You were gonna drive your car home, and leave it out overnight with a busted window and already hotwired? You gonna put a bow on it too?”

Ian laughed again, “Kind of having a shit night, Tony. I wasn’t thinking it through.”

Tony sighed, nodding his head. “Okay, I know a guy. He does this stuff around the clock, he’ll give you a good deal. Follow me.”

“It’ll be okay at my place,” he said and didn’t even believe himself.

“It’s up to you man, you’re just gonna be S-O-L when you have to go to work tomorrow morning and you’re missing a car.”

Ian opens his mouth to agree to follow Tony, when a thundering engine rides past —it’s Mickey, _of course it’s Mickey_ ; Ian gets distracted, eyes following.

The universe is a sick bitch.

It was dark, and his nose and mouth were covered by the bandana tied around his head (that cold autumn sting when you’re speeding down the street was no joke), but it was easy to tell it was him. He watches Mickey ride past, stop, and then turn right back around.

What in the actual fuck.

Tony watches with Ian as Mickey pulls his bike up onto the sidewalk a couple feet away from them. He’s not wearing his helmet, and Ian wants to go over and shake him because as well as Mickey rides, he fucking knows better… especially after a club party when he’s been _drinking_ at the very least. He’s not even wearing a jacket riding around in this cold, the hell is wrong with him?

It’s like a dream at first, oddly enough. Mickey’s scrambling off his bike, eyes all wide and concerned as he surveys what’s in front of him for a second; he tugs the dark bandana down around his neck, eyes darting to Ian’s busted up hand. Ian goes all soft inside because his boyfriend just goes to him right in front of Tony, reaches for him, puts his hands on Ian’s shoulders as he looks at him, his grip is firm like he’s making sure Ian doesn’t float away.

“What’s going on —the fuck happened?” Mickey questions; he quickly glances over at Tony, who is just standing there with high eyebrows and a closed mouth. “The fuck happened to your car?”

_Ian’s thirteen and he feels like he’s going to be sick. But he can’t keep it in anymore, he can’t not tell his best friend, he tells his best friend everything. He trusts Mickey, he does. Even though Mickey thinks a certain way about things, Ian tells himself it’s going to be different because Mickey and him are best friends._

_Ian’s even seen the kid cry, which to be fair… not everyone with all their teeth can say the same._

_The brunette’s staring at him all confused, probably because Ian looks like he’s fucking constipated. The brunette’s got an old, yellowing bruise next to his sharply raised left eyebrow, and he’s kind of sweaty from the sun beating down on them —completely cloudless today. They’re walking home from school, and normally they’d be walking with Svetlana and Mandy, but not today. Ian needed it that way, and thankfully the girls understood and agreed._

_“Mickey, I gotta tell you something,” Ian’s voice comes out a little shaky and unsure… a little cracked on top of all this weird shit happening to his body already. Fucking puberty._

_They stop walking in front of a yellow house; there’s no one around._

_“W’sup?” Mickey throws his cigarette on the ground and stomps on it harder than he needed to._

_Ian swallows. Just rip it off like a bandaid. Get this shit over with, whatever happens happens. If Mickey’s going to freak out and hate him or hit him because of this shit, Ian just wanted to get it over with._

_“Uh…” Come the fuck on. He’s been holding this back for almost a full year, now’s not the time to pussy out._

_“What, you kill someone?” Mickey cracks a grin at his own joke._

_He tells Mickey, no he didn’t kill someone, “I think I’m gay.”_

_Mickey went even paler than he already was, and right then Ian didn’t understand that face, but in a few years he’d understand. It only lasted for a moment, that deathly still, deathly quiet reaction from Mickey. Ian almost thought that would be the end of it._

_“What’dya mean you… think?”_

_“I, uh,” Ian’s voice shakes. “I know. I am.”_

_Then Mickey’s in his face, pushing him hard, pushing him against the chain link fence in front of the yellow house, pushing him heavy into the metal links. The top pokey parts dig into Ian’s boney back; he winces. He’s had exactly five dreams that started like this and, much to Ian’s surprise the morning after, only one of those dreams didn’t end with a punch in the face._

_Ian’s cheeks blaze with heat at the memory of that one dream. That had been a confusing morning; he was used to waking up like that after dreams about Justin Timberlake, not his best friend._

_Mickey’s hands are curled around Ian’s shoulders firmly anchoring him to the ground, and there were faint traces of nicotine on Mickey’s shallow breath. “You can’t fucking tell anybody,” he said fiercely. “You understand? Keep that shit to yourself, you have to. Especially the club —they can’t know. My dad_ really _can’t fucking know!”_

_“I-I know, Mick…” Ian swallowed._

_He’s never been scared of Mickey before, and he’s not sure he’s not feeling fear now, but he’s nervous. Nervous that he’s about to lose his best friend, because in Mickey’s whole world being gay is the worst thing you could ever be, right after being… not white._

_“M’serious, Ian,” Mickey rubbed at the tip of his nose, backing away; Ian can still feel where the other boy grabbed onto his shoulders, like his fingers had been roots ripped from soil. Mickey looks around as he gathers space between them. Are they still best friends? Does Mickey hate him now?_

_“But—”_

_“Shut the fuck up about it,” Mickey hissed. “Please… just stop, okay? Let’s just… let’s just go hang out at your house, ‘kay. Lip got Donkey Kong, right?”_

_“Uhm, yeah,” Ian’s voice was a little weak when he replied, a little dazed. “Okay.”_

_Mickey started walking, and it took a second for Ian to gather himself and follow after the other boy like a lost puppy. There were a lot of things buzzing through his mind, and he kept looking over at Mickey’s tense face. He was frowning again, deep in thought, mouth quirking from side to side._

_Fuck it. “Is it okay?” Ian asked. He had to know; he held his breath._

_Mickey stopped walking again, looking over at Ian in question, “Is what okay?”_

_“That I’m…” Ian trailed off, not wanting to say it again right now, not wanting Mickey to freak out again. His eyes stung at the thought of Mickey not wanting to be friends anymore. Shit like that happens, Ian’s seen it with his own eyes. He doesn't want that to happen to him and Mickey, he can’t take that. “You know. Are we still cool?”_

_Ian didn’t understand it in the moment, but he would later in his life. He didn’t understand Mickey’s red face, or the shake in his best friend’s voice when he was yelling before. He didn’t see Mickey’s mask slipping._

_Mickey pulled a face, the back of his hand coming up to wipe at his sweaty brow, “What you asking stupid fucking questions for?”_

_Ian grinned to himself as they continued down the sidewalk._

Ian wants to not be upset and hurt by tonight, because of how Mickey’s looking at him, how he touched him in front of not only an “outsider”, but another man. Didn’t even hesitate about it, just went to Ian and reached for him (Okay yeah, Mickey had just ridden up on a scene where Ian was with a cop, bleeding, with a car window smashed in… so he was concerned, but still). Ian wants to tell Mickey he’s proud of him, wants to kiss all of his fingers and wrap him up under him and forget about everything else that happened, forget about the baseball field.

He can’t though, because his stomach turns with reminder. Mickey smells sweet. The kind of sweet that crawls down your throat, all fresh flowers and sticky hard candy. Unfortunately, Ian knows the smell of Mickey’s fed side-bitch… but that’s not her smell. He leans out of Mickey’s hands, taking a step back. The other man has a smudge of bright pink lipstick on his jaw, and some more up by his earlobe. He took another step back, maggots in his chest sinking deeper.

Ian looks away from Mickey, because he can’t think about him inside some slut at the club when he should’ve been at the dugouts. Ian speaks only to Tony, “How far away is that guy?”

Tony clears his throat, shifting a little, “Few streets down.”

Ian nods.

“Ian,” Mickey’s voice has the slightest of edges to it. “What happened?”

“I’ll follow you,” Ian tells Tony.

Mickey grabs Ian’s arm then, “Ay, I’m fucking talking to—”

No. He bailed. Ian’s in Mickey’s face, pushing back, pushing Mickey against the chain link fence behind him. Tony says something but Mickey holds a hand up to him, telling him it was fine, to _back the fuck off… please_.

“It wasn’t her.” It didn’t come out as a question, because Ian didn’t even need to ask.

Mickey tensed. Ian didn’t move; didn’t explain further because Mickey didn’t need this spelled out for him. Finally, after looking away and unsuccessfully biting back a snarl, he answered. “No.”

There were too many things to feel. His insides screamed and thrashed, boiling him from the inside out. What Ian _wanted_ to do was to yell, _“You were fucking some club bitch when you should’ve been with me!”_ Instead, he kept his voice low so Tony couldn’t hear. “You bailed on me. You said you’d be there, and you bailed on me to bang some whore for your psycho dad. So much for living your fucking life, huh?”

“Ian—”

“You can explain later, I don’t have time for this,” Ian stepped back away from Mickey, pointing to his car. “I have to go get this shit fixed.”

He’d feel like shit about it later, but right now all he could do was put some space between him and Mickey. Ian was _for fucking sure_ going to get an explanation, but right now he couldn’t deal with it. Tony headed back to his patrol car, and Mickey just stood there, staring at Ian, bottom lip secured tightly between his teeth.

It’s been a little while since Ian’s seen soft from Mickey, he just wished that soft wasn’t because of… all of this. This wasn’t the soft he ever wanted to see from the brunette. Ian swallowed, looking away from Mickey again as he shrugged his jacket off, using it to brush the rest of the big chunks of glass off the driver's seat before he laid it down, giving him something safer to sit on.

“Here,” Mickey’s voice was right behind him. Ian looked back over his shoulder, seeing the brunette holding his leather cut out towards him. “Glass is gonna tear up your jacket.”

Ian looked down at Mickey’s cut. The black leather was softened up nice from wear, some scratches here and there from business, from the life. Mickey’s life. “Mick, m’not gonna use your cut to sit on glass.”

“Take it,” he said. “S’just a vest, man. Besides, I don’t really wanna be picking pieces of glass outta your asscheeks later,” Mickey gave a pull of a half smile.

It worked, and Ian hated that it did. He gave Mickey a little one in return, “Just a vest?”

“Now it is,” Mickey said.

Ian sighed heavy, taking the cut from Mickey’s hands, neatly placing it on the seat before he climbed in and reached under the wheel. “You can’t be like this right now,” he told Mickey, giving him a look. “You can’t say shit like that.”

“What?”

Ian grunted, finding what he needed, pulling at it. “The shit you say, Mick.”

Tattooed fingers are covering his own, Mickey crowding the space in the car door as he stills Ian’s hands, getting him to look at him. He’s so close, crouched down by to Ian, so close that Ian’s smelling that fucking perfume again.

_Ian was fifteen years old when he learned how to hotwire a car. Mickey taught him on New Years Eve in North Side (Mickey called him a late bloomer; “How the fuck didn’t I know you didn’t know how to hotwire a fucking car by now?”). Rich people didn’t have block parties, at least not like the ones in South Side. They had fancy gatherings inside their fancy homes, away from their vehicles. Find the right neighborhood and the car won’t even be locked. Idiots._

_“Okay, you gotta find the wires that go to the steering column,” Mickey huffed softly like he was trying to gather patience, even though Ian had literally just cracked open the plastic cover to get to said wires in the first place._

_“Gimme a sec,” Ian murmured._

_Mickey sat in the passenger seat, leaning over to supervise; his hand attempted to dart over a couple times but then pulled back like he couldn’t decide if he should intervene or not. He was kind of a micromanager sometimes, to be honest. Mickey’s fucking bossy like that._

_“No, the steering column wires,” Mickey sighed._

_Ian grunted as he hunched over the steering wheel; he found the bundle of wires he needed. “You said the steering column wires, right? Wires to the steering column? I didn’t catch it the first eighty times.”_

_“Fucker.” Mickey gave his shoulder a push; Ian grinned as his belly flipped from the touch._

“I can smell her on you,” Ian told Mickey. “I can’t hear you say the shit you say when I can fucking _smell her_ on you.”

Mickey looks down, leans away a little, like he forgot and just remembered. Ian looks all over his face once more —being pulled between wanting to kiss the brunette and wanting to give him the cold shoulder was a frustrating place to be in. Mickey was so beautiful, and had been through so much shit no one should have to go through, Ian felt this deep cut of guilt for even being upset with him. But Mickey bailed on him to be with a club girl.  

Not wanting to get caught up in a spiraling guilt loop, Ian dealt with the only thing he could right now; he got back to work on the wires, letting Mickey’s hands fall away.

“I’ve got to go,” Ian sniffs, pushing down the swell of need under his ribs. It takes a couple times of swiping the wires together, but the car roars to life, and Mickey is standing and backing up, giving Ian space —space that _honestly_ Ian needed right now.

But he stops before he closes his door, looking at Mickey again, sans cut. The streetlight casts a terrible blue light a couple yards away, making the brunette look even sadder.

“I love you,” Ian told him, because he did.

Mickey nodded, wiping at the tip of his nose, “Love you.”

Shit. Ian took a deep breath, looking over his shoulder to see where Tony was and what he was doing —turning his patrol car around. He made it quick, reaching out to grab onto Mickey’s wrist, pulling him towards the car.

Mickey grunted as he let Ian tug on him, furrowing his brows. Ian didn’t give him time to even say anything, pulling him further down, his hands going for either side of Mickey’s face, holding him.

When Mickey sighed heavily in relief and leaned into the touch, Ian had to bite back the breath caught in the back of his throat. He missed Mickey. Missed him _so_ much, and seeing him like this sucked… smelling that girl on him right now _really_ sucked, but he did love him. Completely.

“I love you,” Ian repeated. “I’m fucking _pissed_ at you, but I love you.”

Mickey nodded, fingers coming up to brush  over Ian’s wrist, feathering over his skin like he was committing it to memory. Ian missed that touch. Then he stepped back, and Ian gave him one last look before closing the car door.

 

* * *

 

Ian never made it home. He had to go straight from Tony’s mechanic guy to work, because it took longer than expected. Thank god he had a spare uniform, and the water pressure at the station was almost hard enough to scrape your skin off. Now he was running on being awake for over twenty-four hours and a sausage, egg and cheese breakfast sandwich —that he was absolutely going to regret later.

He sat in the back of the rig, leaning against the back of his little seat, letting his eyes slip closed for the few minutes he had. Shea was talking to Louise up front —Davis was out for the day, so it was just the three of them.

It was quiet in the back of the rig… kind of. Quiet enough. Ian had had time to chill out after seeing Mickey, had time to breathe. He was still upset, still hurt, and they would have to figure this shit out. They had to; they had to be strong while all this shit was going on, they couldn’t crumble.

Ian wonders what Mickey’s doing, wonders where he is. He rubs his fingers over his eyes, taking a deep breath; the bandage wrapped around his hand scratched at his nose. What a shit night. However, Mickey did reach for him in front of Tony, and that made Ian smile a little. Yes, it was because he thought that something bad happened to Ian, but he still reached for him. Ian gets all warm inside.

The broken voice of dispatch bleeds over everything else, and Ian perks up, blinking his eyes a couple times, paying attention.

“Ay, possible cardiac arrest!” Shea said, turning the rig around. Then into the radio she said, “Ambulance 13 responding.”

Cars laid on their horns, Ian cursed under his breath, holding on to what he could while the rig spun around; Louise yelped when she dropped her phone on the floor.

Everything else got left on the rig when they got to their destination, all of the other shit, the other worries. Ian climbed out quickly, taking his bag with him, then grabbing the gurney with his team. It seemed so rushed and discombobulated, but they worked like this, throwing things to each other, barely looking but the other person caught it without issue.

It was an office building; real polished and new, the kind with squeaky floors and entire walls of windows. There had to be a couple dozen people all congregating in one specific area and even more people around the lobby, rubbernecking.

A security guard met them at the tall double doors; he rushed along side with them, winded but recounting what he saw. “He just fell down outta nowhere! Looked like a heart attack, I think, I dunno.”

“Conscious?” Shea asked.

“Doesn’t seem like it, no.”

It was chaotic. It’s always chaotic when someone drops in the middle of a crowded place though. “Move, move, move,” Ian and his team all said as they maneuvered through the crowd. “Give us room, c’mon make room, move please!”

Ian crouched down next to the sprawled out man on the shiny floor as he snapped his gloves on. First, he checks for a pulse. “Can’t find a pulse,” Ian says to Louise. “Toaster.”

He works while his team are doing what they need to do; checks eye dilation, gets his gloved hands in around the guys face, checking for anything… feels swollen, feels harder than it should be, tighter than it should. He checks again for a pulse. Still can’t find it. He’s looking at the guy and something feels off, doesn’t feel like cardiac arrest.

“Toaster’s firing up!” Louise is saying.

He’s got patches of a red on his face that don’t look like they’re from a fall… the guy is on his back, but he could’ve been flipped over. “Someone move him?” he asked, looking around at blank faces. “Did someone move him? Did someone flip him onto his back?”

“No,” a woman finally piped up. “I don’t think so, I think he just fell like that. He fell to his knees, then got down on the floor and fell back.”

“So he didn’t fall-fall?” Ian asked.

She shook her head, her mousy hair shifting when she did, “No, not really.”

Okay. So he didn’t fall on his face and get all fucked up. He looks like someone hit him in the mouth. Ian shakes his head to clear his thoughts, to focus. Fuck, he was tired.

“Toaster’s ready!”

“Wait! This isn’t…” Ian trails off, carefully turned the man’s head to the side and saw the splotches of red creeping out from under his collar, “Yeah. Kill the toaster.” He goes for his bag; gets what he needs.

“Oh shit,” Shae is on the other side of the man, crouched down like Ian is. She’d pulled the man’s shirt up so she could slap the defibrillator pads on his chest, but halted as soon as his torso’s glowing rash was exposed.

Ian uncaps the EpiPen and immediately stabs it into the man’s thigh, right through his slacks. They wait. It’s a tense couple of seconds. Come on, come on, come on…

“Anaphylactic shock,” Shae explains to the security guard who’s been hovering about three feet away this whole time.

It’s dead quiet, even the crowd around them. Everyone’s waiting.

_Ian’s sixteen, charging down the street in his ROTC gear, backpack thumping hard against his back with every stride. Maybe today will be the day his letter comes in… he’s been waiting for the past two fucking weeks, it should be in by now._

_He zooms past Lip on the sidewalk, ignoring the hollering after him. Blindly, Ian raises a hand while he runs, waving behind him at his brother._

_God, he wants this so bad. He’s never wanted anything more than this. His belly twists in anticipation, heart trying to burst from his chest. Ian skids to a stop in front of his house, scrambling through the front yard, up the stairs, bursting through the door. Doesn’t close the door, doesn’t have time._

_“Woah, come on!” Fiona complains as he whisks past her, heading for the kitchen where the mail is piled up on the table. “Where’s the fire?”_

_He breathes so hard. He’s breathing so damn hard, dropping his backpack on the linoleum floor, plopping down on a chair. He stares at the pile of mail. Junky catalogues and coupons they have to dig through later._

_He sees it. The envelope. Ian feels a pull of dread at his gut, reaching for it slow. He has no fucking idea what he’d going to do if he didn’t get in. Ian knew better than to put all his eggs into one basket, but when you want something this bad, it’s hard not to. Ian’s sixteen, and he’s about to have his entire heart broken._

Ian’s shoulders fall to rest when the man’s eyes shoot open and his mouth opens so he can take in air, gasping sharply. He feels Shea grab onto his shoulder, giving him a good-job squeeze.

Predictably, the surrounding crowd did their little relieved _oohs_ and applause thing, still milling around them to watch all the _excitement_. People can’t help themselves, they see medical emergency and all of a sudden all the other bullshit in their life doesn’t matter, all that matters is this thing that has absolutely nothing to do with them. People are nosy. It happens.

“How ya doing?” Ian asks the man while they assess him once more. “How ya feeling?”

He’s dazed, looking aimlessly around from where he laid on the gurney. “Wha…”

It takes a little while to get back into the rig, especially with the dozen or so lingerers in the lobby. They pack up their gear, pack up their patient, and head towards the hospital.

The man’s name is Mark. Peanut allergy that he’s normally very on top of, but shit happens. He’s a good guy, super grateful —he’s got three kids at home, and another on the way. Kids all under the age of ten, poor bastard.

Ian feels less tired, energized by the thrill of the job, the tension of waiting for your patient to breathe, the whole _ordeal_ of saving someone’s life. It feels good. This was never the plan, but Ian can’t really say that he regrets it. No way.

 

* * *

 

He’s not entirely sure how he makes it through the shift start to finish, or how he makes it home. Ian’s no better than a zombie as he trudged up the stairs to his apartment. It felt like his legs were trying to sprout roots and bury into the floor, like his shoulders were starting to melt.

He blinks and he’s in his bedroom, toeing out of his boots. He should probably get something to eat in him; he needs a shower for sure —hot water would be nice right now but he doesn’t really have the energy for _any_ of it. Ian sighs, plucking at the buttons of his shirt. He has half a mind to just throw himself onto his bed fully dressed.

If he weren’t so fucking tired, he would’ve jumped and yelled, but all he could manage was a soft gasp when a body is moving in front of him and fingers are taking over for him, letting him relax his arms to his sides.

_Seventeen. Walking out of History class, Ian gasps in surprise as he’s blindly pulled in the opposite direction he needed to go. He already knows it’s Mickey by how his hand was curled around his arm; he knew his touch. They moved so fast, a blur of people and colors and his schools’ terrible cement block walls sliding by his vision until he’s crammed in a closet with Mickey (the grossness of the irony in and of itself) for a quick and unexpected BJ that’s going to leave Ian dazed but satisfied, and Mickey smug with the promises of more later._

_Sixteen. The Saturday before Christmas, Ian’s trying not to fall asleep at the register of the Kash and Grab. Because of the odd hour of the day it’s real slow, and the heat keeps shitting the bed so Ian’s got to sit there all bundled up, but the problem with that was being bundled up was also cozy as hell, add on not having much to do… fuck, he needed a nap. The door chimed when it opened, and Ian was out of his chair in an instant. Mickey was supposed to have another two weeks in juvie, but there he was walking through the door with a wide shit-eating grin, talking about getting out because of good behavior. Being completely caught off guard, Ian is fully awake as his sight goes just a touch blurry. He locks the store’s door and drags the brunette to the back room._

_Fifteen. His left cheek throbs. Ian curls his lip back as he rolls himself a joint, keeping his muttering about what a piece of shit Frank was under his breath. Fucking asshole. He leans back against the wall of the broken down van as he lights up, taking a big hit. Days like this, he couldn’t fucking wait until he went to West Point. Get the hell out of this shithole neighborhood, away from his shithole dad. He exhales a billowing cloud, and ends up nearly coughing up a lung when the doors to the van fly open and scare the hell out of him. Mickey’s voice is loud and teasing, and Ian grins after he stops coughing. Okay so this shithole neighborhood wasn’t so bad all the time._

Mickey smells _so_ good. Ian’s eyes droop as he stands there, letting Mickey undress him; the brunette goes slow, stripping Ian down to his boxers. Ian blatantly watches, too tired and surprised by his boyfriend to find his subtly. _God_ Mickey smells so good, and he looks even better… did he get a haircut?

“C’mon,” Mickey keeps his voice soft, pulling on Ian. “You need to sleep.”

Ian mouths the word _wait_ , wrapping himself around Mickey, melting into him. The brunette supports Ian instantly, arms wrapping around him, hand sinking into his hair (he _did_ get a haircut), scrubbing lightly at his scalp. If he could, he’d purr. Ian is so grateful for Mickey’s strength holding him up right now, for his warmth, for how _good_ he smells… Ian buries his face into the crook of Mickey’s neck, breathing in deep. He groans on his exhale before breathing him in again.

He feels so fucking good against him, Ian could cry.

“C’mon tough guy,” Mickey’s whispers, getting Ian into bed, tugging gently. “C’mere.”

Ian closes his eyes; sinks into the mattress, listening to the sounds of fabric rustling, feeling the blanket being pulled over him, feeling Mickey’s warm skin press against his side. With what little energy he has, he moves and tugs at his boyfriend, pulling him backwards tight against his front. The brunette had stripped himself down too, leaving him in nothing but his boxers and chain.

Talking about the night before was the furthest thing on Ian’s mind. Didn’t give a fuck right now, they could deal with that later. Right now all he cared about was falling asleep with Mickey in his arms —nuzzling his nose into the back of the brunette’s hair, still breathing him in. Ian groaned again, completely involuntary, dropping his lips to the back of Mickey’s neck. A soft brush. Ian’s body was exhausted, but his insides still craved the other man.

Mickey reached back for him, tattooed fingers carding into Ian’s hair, tangling their legs together. Ian pulled Mickey against him tighter. He couldn’t get close enough. “I’ll be here when you wake up, okay?”

Ian nodded, giving Mickey’s shoulder a soft peck, then the side of his neck, then his jaw. Before he got carried away though, he stopped. They still had to talk, had to sort out some shit, and Ian needed to sleep before that happened so he could think clearly… fuck, Mickey smelled _so_ good though, smelled like himself again.

_Mickey’s bed is not the most comfortable, but right now it’s heaven with the brunette pressed against his front, in his arms like this. They don’t ever get opportunities like this, so Ian was soaking in every second he possibly could._

_Mickey reaches back and touches Ian’s hair softer than he ever has. Ian kisses the back of his bare shoulder, inhaling his scent. Home. Comfort. Sex. Warmth. All these good words that pair up with the smell of Mickey Milkovich. All these words that make Ian feel like a sated, happy cat. His body hummed from the memory of Mickey’s mouth, his hands… they were inside this perfectly imperfect bubble. Ian wanted this forever._

_The Milkovich house is quiet as ever —the club was out of town on business; Mickey and a couple old timers stayed behind to man the soldiers. It was one night; only one night. They grabbed it, snatched it up as soon as they could._

_“This is nice,” Ian whispers into Mickey’s hair; he feels so good._

_Mickey grunts in response, hand sliding from Ian’s hair down to his arm, down to his hand, tangling their fingers together._ _Ian’s nineteen years old, and he’s never been more in love than this very fucking moment._

One last time, he pressed his face into the crook of Mickey’s neck, kissing at him soft, wanting Mickey’s scent staining his skin head to toe. If his body wasn’t aching so badly for sleep, he’d be sliding his hand down Mickey’s boxers and scraping his teeth against his skin right now.

“You gotta sleep,” Mickey’s voice was soft still, a little distracted and breathy. Ian had finally given in a little and slid his tongue against a special little spot behind Mickey’s ear. He bit back a low groan at the taste of the brunette’s skin he’d missed. “Mm… babe c’mon…”

Ian went all warm and mushy on the inside as he let up, biting on his bottom lip. He grinned slow into the back of Mickey’s hair, letting his eyes slip closed again.

 

* * *

 

_There was this new kid at school. He was gay, Ian could just tell. He was cute, a mess of dirty blonde hair and light eyes to match, dimples biting into his cheeks. His name was Thomas, but when he turned to Ian at the lockers and introduced himself, he said to call him Tommy._

_Tommy was just barely taller than Ian, long-limbed like Ian too, but Tommy was skinny as a rail. So skinny that the bones of his elbows were kind of sharp, and his jeans hung heavily off of his hips. He was friendly, just a real nice kid that probably had a lot of shit going on at home, by the looks of him. He was cute, but he was also kind of tired looking, dim shadows resting under his bright eyes._

_Five days after they meet, Tommy is looking at Ian the way that Mickey looks at a Snickers bar, and Ian felt the back of his neck heat up about it. He was sixteen for fuck’s sake, and a cute boy was a cute boy, even if he couldn’t_ attempt _to hold a candle to Mickey. Ian had eyes._

_There was this moment that Ian got caught up in, by their lockers. Tommy’s looking at Ian in that way, and Ian is rooting around his locker for the History notes he borrowed from Mandy yesterday. He was only half paying attention to what he was doing, really, because Tommy was telling him about his old school in Nebraska —something really uninteresting, but Ian wasn’t that bothered by it, too distracted by his own fucking hormones._

_Ian didn’t even know that Mickey had seen them talking until later that night at the dugout._

_“So, you gonna fuck him?” Mickey asked around his cigarette… five minutes after Ian had come inside of him. When Ian just stared blankly, he continued, “That Uma Thurman looking bitch that was humping your leg at your locker.”_

_“Mickey…” Ian sucked his teeth, eyes rolling. “Knock it the fuck off.”_

_“What’s wrong, hip bones too sharp?” Mickey blew out a cloud of smoke after he asked the shitty question in that shitty jealous tone. “Ay, maybe_ he’ll _let you come on his face, so you’ll have a good time—”_

_“Mick!” Ian’s cheeks burned as he glared over at the brunette._

_Mickey gave a small shrug, dismissive, brow jumping in question, “The fuck was that?”_

_Ian laughed, head shaking. He got up from the metal bench, head still shaking in disbelief, and gathered what was left of his cheap six-pack of warm beer —two cans. He wasn’t going to do this with Mickey, he wasn’t going to play pretend like everything is_ normal _about their relationship and Ian was the one to toss a pebble into calm waters. Calm waters. Ian wishes._

_“M’talking to you,” Mickey said, head dipping to the side, trying to catch Ian’s eyesight._

_Ian lifted a shoulder in response, heading out of the dugout. Call it fishing if you want, because Ian knew what was about to happen, he knew what Mickey’s next move would be. He was just waiting for it._

_As expected, Mickey’s tugging at him, pulling him back into the dugout, “Don’t fucking ice me out, you’re the one throwing it around, bitch.”_

_Ian clenched his jaw hard, throwing his cans to the side before he shoved at Mickey, “You wanna talk about throwing it around?” Another shove, “You wanna talk about your little fuck-room at the club?”_

_“It’s not the same,” Mickey’s chest bumped against Ian’s as he stepped up to him._

_“I don’t care,” Ian’s voice was low. He didn’t back down, didn’t put space between them. “I don’t care if it’s not the fucking same, I’m still not the one fucking club skanks every fucking week!”_

“I didn’t have a fucking choice, Ian!” Mickey breathed hard as he yelled. “How many times do I gotta fucking tell you that? You know how this works!”

There was no part of Ian that wanted to have this discussion in his bedroom, so after Ian got a proper fucking meal in him, he’d been more than ready to have this conversation. They’d just gotten started, an argument that had flavors of fights in the past, but different now.

“Where was she?” Ian asked, hands moving. In the back of his mind, he wonders where in the fuck did this conversation ever happen outside of his own shitshow life. “You said that shit was done. Where the fuck was she?”

Mickey rolled his eyes, sighing what seemed like weeks worth of held breath. He took a step back, resting against the wall behind him. His reply was slightly muffled as he scrubbed his fingers over his face in exhaustion. “Not fucking _there_. Obviously.”

Ian huffed an unamused laugh, head shaking, “And it would just be fucking _impossible_ to have _one_ club party where you don’t get your dick wet, huh?”

“Man, fuck you,” Mickey’s voice hardened up along with his face. “Don’t act like I fuck them because I like it. You don’t get to stand there and make me feel bad for this shit, when you know what you know. I’m not fucking _cheating_ on you, Ian!”

None of this was fair and Ian already felt like a piece of shit and that feeling just took over at that point. He was exhausted again, and upset. Every time Mickey fucked one of those girls it felt like… Ian knew it wasn’t but, it felt like… “Feels like it,” he finally said.

Mickey’s brows rose high as he pushed off the wall. His tongue caught in the corner of his mouth, head nodding in that shitty way he does. “You wanna go there?”

Ian clenched his jaw tight. He was talking about Ned. “Fuck you.”

The brunette moved closer; he had his false smile and a defiant chin set in place. “Yeah. You don’t wanna go there, you don’t have a fucking _excuse_.”

“I wanted something normal!” Ian spat. Mickey can pull whatever face he wants, Ian doesn’t care. He’s wasn’t the one bailing to go fuck someone else. “I wanted a fucking boyfriend! I wanted a _relationship_ , a _real_ fucking relationship!”

“A normal relationship with some geriatric perv… okay Einstein,” Mickey twisted his mouth in a snarl as he looked up at Ian. “You knew exactly who I was, and what my life is when we started this shit. You knew more than _anyone_.”

“But you’re not theirs!” Ian blurted, unable to hold it in anymore. His eyes stung, and he felt like a toddler stomping his feet, but he couldn’t bite down on the words anymore. He was loud, chest ripped open kind of loud, like he hasn’t been before in his life. “You’re not _theirs_ , okay!? And I miss you, and I fucking _need_ you… you said you would be at the field and you weren’t! You fucking bailed on me! And I thought… I thought he found out, I thought he killed you for it this time, Mickey! You don’t even wanna _know_ what was going through my head, waiting on you!”

The quiet between them was heavy, Ian’s words hanging there in the air.

Ian shook his head, embarrassed by his outburst. He was quieter this time, the quiet he reserves for when they are in their bubble and Mickey swallows every sweet word Ian offers him. It’s an honest quiet.

“You’re so fucking far away now, Mick. I know you have to do what you have to do but _he’s getting_ to you, and it’s fucking scaring me. I miss being with you. I miss going out, _doing_ shit… we _finally_ got that for like a _month_ and now look. The closer you get to Terry, the more you pull away from me. Where the fuck are you gonna be five months from now?”

“You really think that?” Mickey asked, voice small. Didn’t sound like him.

Ian looked at him, looked at the fallen face of Mickey Milkovich, and he wanted to walk over to his living room window and let himself just… tumble out. “I miss you,” Ian told him. It’s all he had left.

It hung in the air. Five seconds turned to ten, turned to fifteen. Mickey wet his lips, brows creased, eyes blinking. Ian ached. But then the brunette was closing the space between them.

“Mick,” Ian whispered —desperate.

“C’mere,” he breathed.

It was all they could grab onto right now, and honestly Ian was glad for the break in talking, because he already felt like crap for making Mickey feel bad about _neglecting his poor spoiled brat boyfriend_ when there was so much more important shit to deal with and worry about. But they couldn’t crumble right now. Ian knew that much for sure.

Mickey kissed him soft, breath warm and somehow sweet against Ian’s mouth. Ian’s whole body shuddered from head to toe from the kiss, his insides rolling like the sound of flipping playing cards. Mickey’s hands were gripping his sides, holding him; when Ian slid his hands up Mickey’s chest all the way to bury fingers into dark hair, Mickey made a quiet sound into his mouth and it was good, it was so damn good.

Ian groaned, kissing Mickey harder, slipping his tongue into the brunette’s mouth, tasting him. Mickey’s hands fell to the hem of Ian’s shirt, fingers playing there. It’s been a week, a whole fucking week. And even though he had gone six years without, a week was still torture.

And because of that, his body is _more_ than willing to continue this discussion in another format.

Ian was desperate. He was hurt. He was frustrated. He was angry, and sad, and needy… all these _things_ ; he was wrapped up in a messy bundle, frayed rope cutting into his skin. He _needed_ . He _hurt_. He loved too much.

If he were an engine, he’d rev and rev and rev and rev. Ian kissed Mickey hard, bit at his lips, drawing a shattered moan from the other man. He pushed Mickey against the wall next to the fridge, pushed him hard enough to land with a snarled smile before reaching for Ian, jerking him closer.

“The fuck over here,” the brunette had growled. _Yes_.

It’s tense. Not the kind of tension that makes your skin crawl in discomfort. Not the kind when people want to say something but they don’t. It’s not even the kind of tension when Ian’s buried inside his boyfriend and kissing him slow and soft between pretty words.

It’s devouring. It’s bared teeth and white knuckles.

He was getting so keyed up, so fucking hard. They needed to set this right, hash it out, they needed to find each other again; tie each other down, drown each other. Ian wanted to fucking drown in Mickey, wanted his hands around the brunette’s throat, wanted blue eyes wide while Mickey’s mouth dropped open as he fell apart. God, his mouth. His fucking mouth, those lips. Fuck.

He _needed_. Needed so bad it hurt.

Ian’s shoving into Mickey’s pants, reaching around to grab his ass. He groans. Mickey groans. He presses close as he can, smashing Mickey between himself and the wall. Neither of them care. They practically climb over each other while they kiss and shake, cursing under breath. It’s not close enough; Ian is restless and Mickey is right there with him, pushing and pulling.

“Fucking mine,” Ian growled into Mickey’s mouth. Both of them needed it, both of them needed it so fucking bad.

Mickey’s a brat, finding his voice. He argues via a sharp pull of Ian’s hair —it stings, but Ian’s skin flickers with want. “Real sure of yourself,” he says.

The brunette is looking for a reaction, trying to rile Ian up, and gets exactly that. But Ian expected this, has been maneuvering around Mickey’s reappearing walls, melting the armor to bring his Mickey back to him. He wishes it looked prettier than it does, but Mickey’s only speaking a particular language right now and needs Ian to rip him from being buried under stone.

Ian grabs Mickey’s face with one hand, both wrists in the other, held above, immobilizing the other man. “Look at me,” Mickey does. “I know you’re _trying_ to piss me off but let me make something perfectly _fucking_ clear to you—”

There’s a fire in Mickey’s eyes, a grin pulling at his mouth, “What’s that?” His voice is all fucked out, growling with want. He’s so clearly _wanting_ , so clearly _aching_.

“You’re mine,” Ian tells him clearly. Mickey’s cock twitched against Ian’s hip at that. “I’m _your_ _boyfriend_ and I fucking _know_ you. So that means you can’t bullshit me. I know you’re going out of your mind right now not knowing if you want to get railed into next week or if you want to stuff my cock down your throat all night.”

The brunette keeps his wolfy grin in place but his moon skin betrayed him, flushing. He needed to hear that. Ian smirks, pushing his pointer and middle fingers into Mickey’s mouth, sliding inside until he felt that sucking pressure. Mickey can’t even help himself at this point, so wound up and shaking for it; he grunts around Ian’s fingers.

“So good. That’s it, baby,” Ian murmured, caught up in the small moment; Mickey moaned around his fingers and twitched under his hold. Ian rocked against Mickey, searching for a little pressure, a little friction. Ian whispers low, watching the way his boyfriends lips wrapped around his fingers, “God, I fucking want you. Eyes on me.”

Mickey pauses for a second, just a flash of something in his eyes and a beat of stillness before he pulls his wet mouth off of Ian’s fingers. Blue eyes unfocused and blown out, lips puffy and wet, the brunette gives Ian a slow fucked-out curl of his lip, “Why don’t you quit talking so fucking much, and make that cock useful?”

Ian blinked at him, something brewing deep in his gut. Mickey’s brows tugged upwards quick. A little added on shitty question mark to the end of the brunette’s sentence. He was such a fucking dick; Ian loved him so much.

They’re rough about it. Ian pushes; Mickey scratches; Ian bites; Mickey bites harder.

They ended up knocking Ian’s phone and the marked up sunset calendar off of the wall. Neither one of them do anything about it.

By some miracle, Ian had the mind earlier to throw his wallet on the kitchen table… the kitchen table that Ian is pushing Mickey onto face-first, sweatpants now pooled around his ankles, perfect ass right _there_. Last night’s packet of lube never got used, so it’s making it up for it now; Ian grabs it out of his wallet, tearing it open with his teeth.

Mickey presses his face against the surface of the table and lets out a long and breathy, “Fuuuuck…” while Ian sinks a slicked up finger into him, his other hand busy with holding Mickey’s wrists behind his back, holding him down.

Ian watches, completely mesmerized by how his finger dips inside of his boyfriend. Mickey’s got such a nice ass, Ian almost wants to say forget _all_ this and drop to his knees and bury his face and get to fucking work until his boyfriend shatters. With the noises Mickey’s making filling up the kitchen, Ian’s making a goddamn mess inside his sweatpants right now.

“Like that?” Ian grinned, touching that real good spot to make his boyfriend’s eyes roll. It worked.

“Like it better if it was your dick,” Mickey slurred out.

Ian chuckled, but he got all warm. He watches Mickey’s back for a moment. Watches how his dewy, tattooed skin dips and moves while Mickey fidgets under his hold. Mickey’s breathing so hard, the side of his open mouth smashed against the table.

He’s so goddamn beautiful.

Ian pushes a second finger inside of Mickey, and the brunette makes a deep, greedy sounding noise, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “C’mon,” Mickey pants, trying to push back against Ian’s hand. “Stop fucking around.”

Ian agrees, and Mickey’s more than ready at this point, his body surprisingly relaxed and receptive despite the attitude. It makes Ian smile, hunger taking over. He lets go of Mickey’s wrists, sliding his hand to bury into dark hair instead, pulling back until he earns his sharp gasp and wanting moan.

“ _God_ , fuck yeah,” Mickey’s gasping voice is strained when Ian first pushes into him.

Mickey punches out these tortured sounds while Ian bottoms out, holds and waits for his boyfriend to breathe and adjust (there’s a difference between throwing someone around and _actually_ hurting them, after all).

Ian breathes slow and deep, calming himself down before he starts moving. It feels too good, too warm, too perfect to be a hundred percent clear headed right now. And then… when the time comes… fire.

Mickey’s desperate and tortured noises continue. He’s holding back, sounds like he’s trying to keep it together but some kind of demon is trying to claw its way through his skin. Mickey’s receptive and willing and grinning like a fucking fiend, but that last little bit he keeps pulled back distorts the sound of his pleasure. It’s too rough and punched out, trying to escape past Mickey’s lips but they’re being blocked.

“C’mon, Milkovich,” Ian grunted, pulling Mickey back and up against his chest so he was tightly buried, making them both claw at each other and moan deep. Ian pressed his mouth against the back of Mickey’s ear, slowing his deep thrusting. “Give it up, baby.”

Mickey gasped, eyes fluttering as they rolled, “Ian…”

Ian bit at his ear, “Fall into it, c’mon.”

He did. Ian got him there with a little more coaxing, a little more deep fucking and heavy breaths on the back of his neck. He took Mickey hard on his kitchen table, so hard that the edge of the table dug into the drywall, and shook under their weight.

And when Mickey fell apart, is was probably the most violently beautiful thing Ian had ever seen.

 

* * *

 

Mickey turned into a absolute _lump_ nestled deep into Ian’s blankets. He slept heavily on his belly, his side pushed up right against Ian from the hips down. Ian was sitting up, watching the brunette sleep and staring at the legal pad that was back in his lap. Taunting him. Laughing at him for not being able to figure out what he needed to say.

His body hummed with a dull ache after having gone a couple rounds with Mickey. The second wasn’t as rough as the first, but it was still intense and Ian knew for a fact that his thighs and back were going to be pissed the hell off tomorrow. Worth it.

Somewhere between round one and two, they talked. Ian still needed an explanation, and when he got it, he can’t remember the last time he rolled his eyes that hard, because his boyfriend —as fucking one hundred and fifty percent homosexual as he was— could not walk away from a damsel in distress.

The girl… she just showed up to the club that night, brand fucking new and waiting to be broken in, so to speak. It was an ugly reality that both Ian and Mickey didn’t talk about. Mickey told Ian that the Old Timers had been circling her… specifically Terry had been. And Mickey was two steps away from the door when he saw what was going on and somehow managed to sweet-talk Terry into giving up the girl.

She ended up passing out after climbing all over Mickey. There was no sex. Part of Ian felt like a piece of shit for laying into Mickey like he had, even though he had meant every word.

Ian looks over at Mickey’s sleeping form again; the blankets are only drawn halfway up his tattooed back. There’s five distinct long red welts from Ian scratching down his back —he’d finally got Mickey back in his lap, riding him for all he was worth. Ian grinned softly at the scratches; Mickey cursed so loud and shivered when Ian did it, and was promptly sent over the edge, coming between them.

It was going to be a long road, the next several months. Ian was going to have to keep fighting for Mickey, keep fighting to help Mickey keep a tight grip on his soul. He’d do it. He’d do anything for Mickey, though. Anything.

Mickey sighed in his sleep. Ian reached down and ran his fingers through dark hair until his boyfriend’s creased brows smoothed back out.

Then he started again.

 

**_Lip,_ **

**_You’re going to hate this, maybe even hate me. I had to leave, but I’m going to be safe, I promise. I hope you don’t hate me for too long, and I hope that one day I’ll see you again. But I can’t come back after I’m gone, and I can’t tell you where I’m going. Not yet, anyway. I’m hoping that one day I can._ **

**_I know you’ll figure out everything after I’m gone. I’m sorry. You’re not going to understand this, and I don’t expect you to, but I can’t watch him walk away again. We never broke up before, we didn’t fall out of love, and we didn’t get tired of each other. We never had a chance before, but this time we do._ **

**_Yes, I know what I’m walking away from. I know I’m hurting everyone, I know I’m a selfish piece of shit for this and everyone will think I’m stupid for following my heart instead of my head. I’m sorry._ **

**_I love you. I wish I could have everything and everyone, but I can’t. And before you think it, it’s not me picking him over all of you. It’s not that. I don’t know what to call it, but it’s not that. Just don’t hate me forever, okay?_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen I know that if you try to break a car window with your elbow, the only thing you’ll break is your bones, most likely.  
> But this is fiction and I’m a dramatic disaster bi, so here we are. 
> 
> Also I 150% stole Ian’s emt scene from the show Sirens, which btw is a pretty good show, and was cancelled too early.
> 
> Many many thanks to Christina :)))  
> Kerri gets all the credit for Mickey's Uma Thurman ref lmao ily


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